


Kingsman: The Secret Service

by KHansen



Category: Kingsman (Movies), The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Kingsman Fusion, Angst, BAMF Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, BAMF Vesemir (The Witcher), BAMF Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Elton John As Himself, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fluff, Gen, Gore, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, Knives, M/M, Mild Transphobia, Smut is in the last chapter so the plot is concluded before it :), Spy Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Spy Jaskier | Dandelion, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, follows the events of Kingsman: The Secret Service, mild homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 64,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25854376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: Julian "Jaskier" Pankratz, whose late mother secretly worked for a spy organization, lives in a South Kerack housing estate and seems headed for a life behind bars. However, dapper agent Vesemir Morhen recognizes potential in the youth and recruits him to be a trainee in the secret service where he meets Geralt Haute-Bellegarde, a fellow trainee and the top competitor for the one open position. He becomes Jaskier's closest friend in a pack of hyenas and, with time, maybe something a little more. Meanwhile, villainous Gaunter O'Dimm launches a diabolical plan to solve the problem of climate change via a worldwide killing spree.
Relationships: Deidre Ademeyn/Renfri | Shrike, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Vesemir
Comments: 26
Kudos: 60





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is fully written and will be posted MWF. This chapter was posted one day early as a gift to my friends. There is smut in the final chapter; however, the plot concludes in chapter 13, so it's not necessary to read chapter 14 for the story :)

**[Korath Desert]**

The air is dry and biting in the throats of the four masked men and women, as one of them tightens the bindings on their captive, securing the elf to the chair he’s sat in. Outside, the warbling blades of a helicopter flying overhead echoes across the barren landscape and through the glassless windows of the palace. A bitter, dusty wind sweeps through the room, pushing a thin layer of sand across the stone floor, and the bound elf snarls and spits curses in Elder at them as he fights against his bindings, before sagging in defeat and hanging his head. 

The man who tied up the elf does one last body check for weaponry before removing his facial covering and taking a deep breath. He has pale skin that’s beginning to show signs of age and wisps of long, gray hair at his temples. Another man follows his suit, removing his mask and revealing dark skin and a handsome face, with deep brown eyes set behind a low brow. Then, one of the women removes her hood, violet eyes and black hair and olive skin having been hidden beneath it. She then elbows the second woman, who quickly pulls her own mask and goggles off, giving a sheepish smile as she tucks a lock of short brown hair behind her ear.

“Sorry, sir,” she apologizes to the pale man, her voice carrying a thick Keracki accent, and he smiles in amusement and nods. 

He then pulls out a gun and aims it at the elf, addressing him in perfect Elder, “We know Filavandrel’s got a second attack planned today. I need the location. It’ll take five shots to take you beyond repair, so I suggest you answer quickly.” 

The elf scowls at the floor but doesn’t respond, keeping his head hung to avoid eye contact, and the man shoots twice, the bullets lodging in the elf’s knees and the elf screams. “That’s two, you don’t want to find out where I’ll put the third.”

He moves the aim of his gun to the elf’s groin, but before he can pull the trigger, the elf has sat up with a victorious grin and something shining dangling from his bared teeth-

“Grenade!” The Keracki woman shouts and leaps on top of the elf, knocking the chair over and protecting her companions as the explosive detonates. The two men and the dark-haired woman are all knocked back by the blast, and when they sit up both the elf and the woman are dead.

“Shit,” the graying man swears as he picks himself up with a small wince, “I missed it. How did I fucking miss it?”

“Time was of the essence, sir,” the remaining woman says pertly, brushing dust off of her tactical gear, “Could have happened to any one of us.”

“If it had been one of the trainees, it would have been forgivable,” he glances at the black man before shaking out his hands and collecting himself with a breath, “Where does this leave us, Merlin?”

The woman, Merlin, looks at the dead bodies with sympathy in her eyes and her voice is carefully neutral, “Renfri was the stronger candidate, sir. As I believe she just made evident. But Istredd’s test performances have been flawless.” She indicates the black man and they both turn to him.

The older man extends his hand to Istredd with a grim smile, “Welcome to Kingsman, Lancelot.”

* * *

**[Kerack - Lettenhove Apartments]**

Rain pounds steadily upon the roof of a black taxi cab as it pulls up in front of a rundown estate. The apartment building is dingy and dim, even with lights in the windows, and there are needles and condoms strewn in the street out front. Colorful graffiti decorates the plain, cement walls, and two men peer at the estate from inside the warmth of the vehicle. 

They both have graying hair: one styled long and tied back in a half tail, the gray touching only his temples, and the other cut short and styled neatly, gel slicking it in place. The man with slicked hair sneers up at the low-end building, “Disgusting place.” He has a posh drawl to his haughty voice and the other man looks at him with a curiously blank expression.

“We won’t be here long,” he says softly.

“I still dispute whether we need to be here at all.”

“‘Rules are rules.’ That’s your motto, isn’t it, Arthur?”

Arthur scoffs and runs a hand over his salt and pepper beard before folding his arms over his chest, “The rules are for gentlemen, Galahad.”

“They’re for _Kingsmen_.”

“And that young woman wasn’t one.”

Galahad sighs and looks out the window again, watching the rain roll down the glass with sad, tired eyes, “Not yet. But she behaved as much like a Kingsman as any of those smug elitists the others put forwards for the job. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be here.”

Arthur watches him for a few moments before frowning, “Is that what’s troubling you, Galahad? Or is it that your little experiment failed?”

“With respect, Arthur,” Galahad turns to face his companion as he places his fingers on the handle to the door, “You’re a snob.”

“With _respect_?”

Galahad opens the door and steps out into the rain, raising his voice just a touch to be heard over the din, “The world is changing. There’s a reason aristocrats developed weak chins.”

* * *

The sound of rain is muffled by the concrete exterior of the small apartment, the walls plastered with pale green paper that’s patterned with tiny flowers. Galahad sips his tea and breathes in the scent of potpourri that wafts from a decorative vase, his eyes scanning the room as he waits for his company to return. In front of where he’s sat on an overstuffed armchair is a low table, the surface cluttered with magazines and children’s books, and on the floor are toy soldiers and a kiddie guitar that looks well-loved. 

Upon the mantle of the empty fireplace is a framed portrait of a blonde woman with blue eyes, smiling broadly at the camera with a quirk to her lips as a wedding ring shines on the hand that rests comfortably around the shoulders of her wife. Her wife has short brown hair and bright eyes, and in her arms is a tiny boy with blue eyes and her same dark hair. Galahad looks away from the portrait, feeling Renfri’s judgmental gaze upon him as he takes another sip of tea to calm his nerves.

“Sorry, about that,” the blonde woman says as she re-enters the room, setting the boy from the portrait down on the floor. He glances up at Galahad curiously but doesn’t say a word, just crawling over to his army men and keeping himself entertained, “You said you know my wife? How is she? It’s been some time since I’ve heard from her but I try not to worry, else I just get a little voice in my head saying, ‘Deidre, quit your henning about me and focus it on our child.’” She chuckles slightly as she sits down across from Galahad, picking up her own cup of, now almost cool, tea.

Galahad clears his throat, “As I said, my name is Vesemir Morhen, and I worked with your wife. I… cannot express to you how sorry I am.”

Deidre’s smile slips and the boy perks up from the floor, turning his luminous blue eyes onto Vesemir. “I don’t understand...” Deidre says softly, setting her tea back down fisting her hands in the hem of her shirt.

“I offer to you my sincerest condolences, Mrs. Ademeyn. Private Shrike passed away in the line of duty, working with a small, elite team including myself and two others during an interrogation.” Vesemir sighs and sets down his mug on the table, avoiding the wide-eyed gaze of the child and focussing his attention on the glistening eyes of Deidre, “She died a hero. It’s thanks to her quick thinking that I survived, along with the rest of our team. I… wish I could answer all of the questions that I’m sure you have, but I’m bound by a nondisclosure agreement and can’t say more. Also, we very much regret that your wife’s bravery can’t be publicly celebrated. I hope you understand.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Vesemir sees the boy turn away with hunched shoulders, his small hands tightly gripping the toy soldiers as though they’re the only things tethering him down. Deidre flounders for words for a few moments before speaking in a broken voice, “How can I if you won’t tell me anything? I didn’t even know she wasn’t with her squad-”

“I’m so sorry I can’t say more. But I’d like to present you with this,” he pulls a medal out of his breast pocket and hands it to Deidre, who looks at it blankly before looking back up at Vesemir, “It’s a Guinevere Cross. Very rare, and to those who know what it is, very highly respected.” Deidre passes it back to him and he loosely holds it between his fingers, “I know it’s not much comfort but… see on the back there? That’s my number. As a more concrete gesture of gratitude, I’d like to offer… let’s call it a favor.”

“What do you mean?” 

“The nature of it is up to you. Just tell the operator 'oxfords, not brogues’, and I’ll know it’s you.” 

“Sorry, _what_?” Deidre frowns, the tears welling in her eyes making them swim, “Who the hell _are_ you?”

“Someone well-placed to help. But I’m afraid I can offer only the one favor, so you may want to save it for an emergency,” He holds it out to her again and she stares at it for a moment before the tears finally spill out over her cheeks and she pushes his hand away.

“I don’t need your help,” she snarls and stands up, “I need my wife back.” Deidre then walks to the door and opens it, holding it pointedly for Vesemir. He bites back a sigh and rises from his seat, glancing at the boy on the ground who is still looking determinedly at his army men. 

Vesemir crouches down in front of him and lays the medal on the floor, the pink circle and complimenting golden, knotted K contrasting with the drab brown carpeting. The boy looks at the medal and reaches out, carefully picking it up in his pudgy hands.

“What’s your name, young man?” Vesemir asks gently and the boy looks up at him.

“Jaskier.”

“Take good care of that, Jaskier. And take good care of your mother, too.”

With that, Vesemir stands and nods his head in farewell to Deidre as he passes her out the door, stifling a flinch as it slams behind him. Through it, he can hear her burst into loud sobs and guilt eats at his heart as he walks down the cement stairs back to the street, hoping that he’ll never hear from Jaskier at all.

* * *

**[Caingorn - 17 years later]**

Armed guards stand in the frigid snow outside a large chalet in the Pustulskie Mountains. Their breaths puff in front of their faces and they’re well bundled up to keep warm, their fingers slowly freezing on the icy metal of their guns. But they don’t make a sound as they dutifully stay their ground in their posts. Snow falls steadily from the gray, cloudy sky, and a frozen breeze blows through the tall pine trees that surround the chalet.

Inside, lavish decor makes its home throughout the building. Rich colors on heavy drapes, golden accents, floor to ceiling windows, and countless priceless artefacts are all on display. A fire rages in the hearth, warming the large common room, and in the center of it is a man tied to a chair. He has thinning brown hair and a thick beard, and his small, watery eyes set deep in his face glare at the thug in front of him as the goon carefully peels off silver duct tape.

“So sorry, Professor Geert,” the man grimaces as he works the tape off, “Just a little bit more, I’m trying not to-”

“For Melitele’s sake, just rip it off!” The professor huffs, his mouth half covered still.

“I’m under strict instruction not to hurt you, but…” the goon quickly pulls the rest of the tape off with a wince while the professor is unfazed.

“Look, you’ve made a mistake. I’m a university lecturer, I’ve got no money.”

“What? No, this isn’t about money,” the goon shakes his head, “You’re in no danger. Our boss just wants to talk to you, he’s a fan.”

Professor Geert raises a bushy eyebrow, “Am I meant to find that reassuring?”

“Let me get you a drink,” he tries instead, “You’re a whiskey man, yeah? Hey, Red? Can you get a selection of our finest single malts, please?” A woman, armed to the teeth with pistols, nods and leaves the room. Geert sighs and starts to relax slightly before scowling as a thought comes to mind.

“Wait, this isn’t one of those prank TV shows is it? I hate those things.”

The goon smiles with a small chuckle, “Look, you’ll have a drink, our boss will be here soon, and he’ll explain everything. And can I be honest with you? Our whiskey selection? You will _shit_. We got a 1943 Ludovic1 that-”

He’s interrupted by a knock at the door and a confused frown settles on his lips. He holds a finger up to the professor before going to the door, palming his gun as he opens it. Outside stands a handsome, dark-skinned man in an impeccably tailored suit, his short-cropped hair dusted with snowflakes.

“I suppose asking to borrow a cup of sugar is a step too far?”

Before the goon can so much as raise his gun, a bullet rips through his forehead and he collapses to the ground. The man at the door has a smoking, silenced pistol in hand, and three more muffled _ping!’_ s ring from it as he shoots the other guards in the room. It’s over in less than a minute and the man steps into the room, smoothing his jacket down and walking towards the professor.

“Professor Geert, my name is Lancelot. I’m here to take you home,” he smiles, his voice smooth and velvety.

The professor looks a bit pale as he eyes the dead bodies on the ground, “This… this isn’t a TV show, is it?”

Red chooses then to re-enter the room, carrying a tray with a single glass of whiskey on it. As her eyes land on the suited man, she reaches for her gun, but with another _ping!_ he’s already shot her. Before she drops it, Lancelot reaches over and plucks up the glass of whiskey from the tray, letting it fall away with her body and clatter to the wooden floor. The man takes a sip of the spirits and smiles in delight.

“1943 Ludovic,” he raises his eyebrows and takes another sip, “Be a shame to spill any, wouldn’t it?”

“I…”

There’s another knock at the door and Lancelot looks over, a small frown curving his plush lips downwards. He cocks his gun again as he moves cautiously towards the door, still holding the whiskey, and out of a side room emerges a dark-skinned woman with shorn hair and Paralympic running blades fitted just below her knees. She cartwheels forward and with a sickening _schlick_ one of the blades cuts through the center of Lancelot, splitting him from the crown of his head down. 

The professor yelps in surprise, flinching back from the sudden display of gore, and she grabs the whiskey before it can fall and sets it on a nearby table. She then goes to a hidden closet and grabs a stack of white sheets. 

“Can you hold these for me?” She has a clipped, Niflgaardian accent, and the professor tries to raise his bound arms. She sighs and swipes one leg forward, her blade cutting through the ropes, and then settles the stack in his hands so she can cover the dead bodies in the room, requiring two sheets for Lancelot’s lanced corpse.

“Much better,” she smiles thinly before picking up the whiskey again and opening the door to allow entry to a tall, thin man with thick black eyebrows and a shaved head. He’s dressed in a casual tee shirt and jeans, a denim jacket decorated with various eco patches completing the ensemble. The woman holds out the glass of whiskey to him and he grins as he takes it while he enters the room.

“My kind of welcome!” He downs the glass of whiskey and then glances around the room at the covered bodies, shuddering slightly, “Thank you, Fringilla.” He then looks to the professor and explains, “I can’t stand bloodshed. Makes me nauseous. Just one drop of blood and _bleugh!_ ” He mimes vomiting and then waits for a laugh that doesn’t come.

“Truly, I mean you no harm,” he approaches and pats the professor’s shoulder amicably, “I’ve read all your papers, seen all your interviews. I mean, I adore you! And I wanna help you, and I’m _so_ sorry you had to witness all this… unpleasantness due to our unexpected guest.” He glances at the two covered halves of Lancelot before wrapping his arm around the professor’s shoulders, jostling the older man with a grin, “I promise you, by the time I figure out who he works for, you and I will be the best of friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. A 1943 Ludovic is a high quality whiskey fermented during the reign of King Ludovic of Toussaint.return to text


	2. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Implied/Referenced Smoking, Implied/Referenced Child Neglect, Car Crash, Suggested Animal Death, Alcohol Consumption, Implied/Referenced Terrorism

**[Kerack - Lettenhove Apartments]**

Jaskier stands before a full length mirror in his small bedroom, adjusting the red leather jacket he recently bought so that it settles more flatteringly over his low, v-neck shirt. His blue eyes settle on the medallion resting on his chest from a long chain, the pink circle and golden, knotted K a bittersweet memory. It reminds him of his mother, both of them really, from before. His gaze drifts in the mirror to look over his shoulder at a photograph of the three of them from when he was very small, and he frowns softly at how happy his mums look. 

He looks back in the mirror, carefully scrutinizing himself. At twenty-one years of age, he’s still got a softness in his cheeks that he despises, preferring the chiseled jawlines of celebrities. He doesn’t look _bad_ , per say, rather he knows he’s quite handsome; but, he looks untethered. He looks like someone without direction, without a purpose. He frowns as he sees that perpetually lost look in his eyes, unsure how to change that.

“Jaskier! I said come here, please!” His mum calls from the living room and he sighs, tucking the medallion under the collar of his shirt and then exiting his room. In the common room, the wall paper is tearing in places and faded, and the carpet is more bleach-stained than the original color at this point. Football plays on the television and his mother is lounging on the lumpy couch, her hair mussed and clothes rumpled, flanked on either side by her husband and his friend.

Jaskier glances at Roben distastefully before turning his attention to his mother, “Yeah?” He’s never liked Roben, misogynistic prick that he is, and the way his mother acts around him makes Jaskier feel vaguely sick. He has her wrapped around his little finger, even got a baby out of her, but Jaskier refuses to be strapped down by the same blind fanaticism. He knows part of it is her clinging to whoever was closest to her in grief after the news of his ma’s passing. And Roben had been there for her, as a treasured co-worker and close friend, and that had developed into something more. But it wasn’t long after they wed, when Jaskier was nine, that he started to change into the asshole he is now.

“You got any Nekkers1, love?” 

He sighs and sticks his hands in his pockets as he shakes his head, “Nope.”

“Go and get us some then,” Roben sneers, looking up at Jaskier through greasy blond locks.

“Get them yourself.”

“Oi, what did I tell you about talking to Roben that way?” Deidre says quickly and Jaskier frowns before glancing at Roben’s friend.

“Three’s a crowd, innit? Why doesn’t Roben’s poodle run to the shops?”

Roben stands up suddenly as he reaches into his pocket. He’s not as tall as Jaskier, and not as broad either, but he’s still stocky and would be foolish to fight. Jaskier knows, he’s tried. Roben pulls out a ten pound bill, holding it out, and Jaskier takes it with a scowl.

“Get your mum the Nekkers and a pack of beers and we’ll show her what three’s really good for while you’re gone,” Roben leers at her and Jaskier’s fingers clench around the note as he struggles to keep his temper under control. He so badly wants to punch Roben’s stupid fucking face. Break his stupid fucking nose again. Make this stupid fucking man feel the pain that he deserves. 

Deidre reaches up and wraps her fingers around Roben’s wrist, “Give him another tenner, Robe, he can get himself a drink, too.” She then pulls him down to whisper something in his ear and Roben grins, pulling another bill out and holding it out. Jaskier takes it reluctantly, averting his eyes, and they land on his little sister as she toddles around the room.

“Cheers, love,” Deidre smiles tiredly up at Jaskier, “And do me a favor, will you? Take your sister with you? She’s doing my head in.”

Jaskier’s eyes snap to his mother and he scowls before storming over to the little girl and scooping her up in his arms, ignoring the sour scent of soiled diaper, and grabbing her half-packed bag on his way out the door. He’s seething and needs to get himself under control, so he stops in the hall and takes a few deep breaths; and, once he feels like he isn’t about to punch a wall, he starts walking towards the elevator. He jabs the button with his thumb and rocks back on his heels to wait. As he does, his sister starts to shiver from the cool breeze, so he carefully shrugs his jacket off and wraps it around her instead.

“That’s better, innit, Ciri?” He smiles slightly at her as she beams up at him with big, green eyes. He stabs the call button again and waits another moment for the winding grind of the elevator, and when it doesn’t come he scowls again and kicks the closed door with an irritated scoff, “Piece of shit,” he mutters and turns to take the stairs, the stairwell reeking of old and new urine.

He steps out into the hall one floor below his own and goes down a few doors to an apartment with a half-dead potted plant in the hallway beside a faded welcome mat that has dogs playing poker on it. He knocks twice and then turns to look out of the hall over the street below, watching cars go by and the fisstech dealer in the alley opposite make a transaction. She’s nice enough, but Jaskier avoids her when he can.

The door opens to reveal a small black woman, with stark white hair and cloudy brown eyes. Her back is bowed with age and she adjusts the bottle cap glasses on her nose to peer up at Jaskier, “Oh, Jaskier, not again.”

“It’s just for twenty minutes, I’m real sorry.”

She sighs and holds her arms out so he passes Ciri and the diaper bag to her, not without taking his jacket back first, though. She settles the toddler on her frail hip, her thin arms wrapped around Ciri’s waist, and waves him off when he tries to offer her one of the bills Roben gave him, “Just get on with it, lad.”

“Thanks, Olga, you’re a lifesaver,” he smiles at her before quickly walking down the hall and making his way towards the shops. Instead of stopping at the grocer’s, though, he pulls his phone out and texts Essi and Priscilla to meet him at the pub as he makes his way there. He also texts his mother to tell her he won’t be back soon and that Ciri is at Widow Olga’s place, so pick her up in twenty minutes or so.

Half an hour later, he’s spilling the story to his friends while they’re all nursing pints at their corner booth in the Rosemary & Thistle Pub, Priscilla and Essi both shaking their heads sympathetically as he complains. The thick smells of nachos and ale fill the room and the tv’s are playing the same football match that was airing in the apartment. Normally, he would be paying attention, especially since Kerack is playing Vengerberg and the need to cheer on his home team usually outweighs his ire, but not today.

“If Roben’s so bad to your mum, I don’t see why she don’t leave him,” Essi frowns when Jaskier finishes ranting.

“Low self-esteem, that’s her problem,” Priscilla says sagely.

“Fuck off, why would she have low self-esteem? Jaskier’s mum’s fit.”

Jaskier isn’t really listening to them, staring deep into his half-finished pint with an angry scowl, “One of these days… One of these days I’m gonna smash his fucking head in.”

Essi blinks and raises her eyebrows, “Are you mental? He’d just get that lot to do you in and then say he didn’t have nothing to do with it.” She gestures absently to the group of men sitting at a table nearby, and their leader, Roben’s son Jamal, sneers at them.

“What you saying, bruv?” Jamal’s friend asks them, leaning over the table to glare at their little group. Jamal glances at his friend before turning his attention back to Jaskier:

“You think you can talk shit about us, just because my guvnor’s banging Jaskier’s mum?” 

Jaskier shrugs, “Pretty much, yeah.”

Jamal stands up and stalks over, and Jaskier gets up as well to stand chest to chest with him. He’s got an inch or two on Jamal, but the older boy is a bit stronger, and a lot fatter, so he’d win in a conflict from sheer mass alone.

“Leave it, Jaskier,” Priscilla says as she stands, pulling Essi along with her, “It ain’t worth it. Let’s just go.”

He glances at them and nods, reaching out to clap Jamal on the shoulder, “Sorry about that, no hard feelings, yeah? We’ll just be going then.”

“Yeah, you better fucking leave,” Jamal jeers at their backs as they walk out the door, his little gang following his lead with taunts and insults. Essi glances back once the door to the pub is shut and sighs a little.

“Yeah, wasn’t worth it.”

Priscilla nods in agreement before linking her arm with Essi’s and starting to walk to the street. Jaskier follows behind but stops at the edge of the sidewalk, speaking in a bored sort of voice as he sticks his hands in his pockets, “What are you walking for? It’s freezing out.”

They turn to look at him and he produces a set of yellow car keys from his pocket with a smug grin before unlocking a matching sports car in the lot. Priscilla’s eyebrows shoot to her hairline, “Whose car is that?”

“His, innit,” Jaskier gestures to the pub before opening the driver’s door, “Nicked his keys out his pocket when he came over.”

“Shit, son!” Essit crows and they run over, climbing into the car as well. Jaskier turns the key in the ignition and the engine turns over with a whining roar. The car rumbles beneath them and they all grin as he backs out of the space and pulls on the emergency brake to lock it before turning the wheel hard and hitting the gas, sending the car into a sharp spin. He then releases the brake so they start doing tight little turns in the parking lot, the windows rolled down as they whoop and holler with each screeching donut.

The door to the pub flies open and Jamal runs out with his lackeys, watery eyes widening in shock before a snarl settles on his face, “Oi! Hey! That’s my fucking car! You’re fucking _dead_ , Jaskier!” 

Jaskier grins and flips him the bird just as Jamal is pulling his phone out to, presumably, call his father, so Jaskier releases the wheel to straighten out the car and hits the gas, peeling out of the parking lot with a squeal of the tires.

“Floor it, Jaskier!” Essie cheers with a laugh as she falls back in the back seat.

Priscilla shakes her head but she’s grinning as well, “If they don’t kill you, Roben surely will.”

“The only person with the right to kill me is whoever actually paid for this car,” Jaskier laughs. Their merry-making is brought to an abrupt halt as flashing lights and a siren start up behind them, “Shit.”

“Did you have more than two pints?” Essi asks and Jaskier looks at her in the rearview.

“Like that’s my biggest problem,” Jaskier spies a side street and hits the brakes, turning the wheel hard to make the car turn into a tailspin and lining up with the boot to the street. He then throws the car in reverse, turning in his seat and bracing his arm against the passenger seat so he can watch backwards as they fly down the side street. Essi and Priscilla laugh and scream in delight, making faces at the cops that follow them as Jaskier pulls out of the opposite end of the street and weaves around traffic, still in reverse.

He turns down another side street and glances forward at the police cruiser that’s struggling to get into the narrow street, and when he looks back there’s a cat crossing the road. His eyes widen and he swerves suddenly to avoid it. The rear of the car slams into a lamp post. The airbags deploy and hit them like a punch to the gut. They groan and wheeze as they push the deflating bags out of the way.

“Dickhead!” Essi shouts, unbuckling her seatbelt and reaching forward to help Priscilla as she struggles with her own.

“Cats are fucking vermin, you shoulda just hit it and drove on, Jaskier!” 

“Should’ve done a lot of things,” Jaskier says grimly as he flexes his fingers on the wheel, his own seat belt jammed, “I’ll sort this. Get out the car.” When his friends hesitate he raises his voice to convey his urgency, “I said get out the fucking car!” They scramble out and the moment the doors are shut he shifts the car into drive and floors the gas pedal, the car flying forward and violently meeting the police cruiser head on in a horrific crash.

* * *

Across the city, a sleek black cab pulls up in front of a posh tailor shop, the window emblazoned with the words “ _Kingsman_ ” and below that “ _Established in 1849_ ”. The sidewalk in front of the shop is fairly busy with pedestrian traffic but the shop itself is quiet, very few people passing through the door. 

Out of the cab steps Vesemir, hair now completely gray and sporting a thick mustache, who adjusts his suit jacket and carries a closed umbrella as he walks into the shop. The interior is very sleek and well-formatted, with fitting rooms to the left, suits hung on the walls, and a tailor stood behind the desk across from the door. The tailor looks up with a polite smile and nods respectfully to Vesemir, “Arthur is in the dining room, sir.”

Vesemir thanks him and steps into fitting room one, placing his hand on the mirror and then pulling a hook on the wall, and the room descends through a brick shaft down to a small room that looks like a tube station. Instead of a subway train, however, there’s a silver vehicle shaped like a pill, the side of it popped open and awaiting its next passenger. He gets in and closes the door and the car is off, speeding through underground tunnels until it reaches its destination and he climbs out again, making his way through winding halls of the Kingsman manor to the dining room.

Sat at the head of the empty table is Arthur, his hair fully silver but still artfully styled as well as a trim goatee on his wrinkled chin. Before him, on the table, sits an exquisite decanter filled with amber liquid as well as two glasses and a leather bound file. Twelve seats surround the long table, eleven unoccupied, and Vesemir makes his way to the one to the right of Arthur, nodding his head in greeting, “Arthur.”

“Galahad,” Arthur greets, “Finally. The others were beginning to become concerned that we’d be making a double toast.” 

“So I take it that it’s Lancelot we’re drinking to,” Vesemir says somberly as he puts on a pair of thick rimmed glasses, and the ten other empty seats are suddenly filled with men and women all wearing bespoke suits and the same thick glasses. Vesemir nods his greeting and his eyes land on the one empty chair, his mouth twisting with dismay.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur takes a deep breath and rests his hands on the table in front of him, “Now that we’re all present… Gentlemen, ladies, I’m thankful to say that it’s been seventeen years since we’ve last had the occasion to use this decanter. And, as ever, the circumstances make even an 1815 Damboric2 brandy taste bitter,” he uncorks the decanter and pours two fingers into each glass, passing one to Vesemir, “Lancelot was an outstanding agent, a true Kingsman, and he will be sorely missed.” He raises his glass and Vesemir follows suit, “To Lancelot.”

“To Lancelot,” Vesemir and the others murmur before they all down their glasses in solemn solidarity.

There’s a long moment of silence before Arthur continues speaking, folding his hands in front of him again, “To matters practical, before we all disperse. One: Galahad will be taking over Lancelot’s current mission. Two: I intend to begin the selection process of Lancelot’s replacement tomorrow, so I expect you all to present me with your chosen candidate no later than 9 P.M. GMT.”

* * *

**[Lettenhove Police Station]**

A clock ticks on the bare wall of the interrogation room that Jaskier is sitting in, his arms crossed as he slouches low in his chair. Across the table from him is a suited detective, her eyes tired as she leans her forearms on the table and laces her fingers together to look at him almost pleadingly. They’ve been here for maybe an hour now, and he knows he’s getting on her last nerve.

“Jaskier, there is no such thing as honor amongst thieves,” she sighs, “Now, you can start giving me the names of the girls you were with, or you can go down.”

Jaskier looks at the two-way mirror as he sulks, pretending to be thinking hard when he has zero intentions to reveal to her the names of Priscilla and Essi. He isn’t a snitch, never has been one and never will be.

“Up to you,” the detective adds and Jaskier looks over at her, giving her a charming smile and a shrug.

“I want to exercise my right to a phone call.”

The detective pauses and then sighs, reaching across the table to grab the plea deal that was offered to him and tearing it in half as she stands up, “Well, I hope it’s to your mum. To tell her you’re going to be eighteen months late to dinner.” 

Jaskier watches as she leaves the room, closing the door behind her. He waits for a few moments, his smile sliding into a scowl as he glares at the wall and pushes his floppy hair back off of his face. This is a stupid idea, it isn’t even a real phone number, and yet…

He reaches into his shirt and pulls out the medallion, removing it and wrapping the chain around his fingers so the pink circle and sideways, golden K rest against his knuckles. He looks down at it thoughtfully, running his thumb over the ridges of the gilded knots, and then flicks the medallion so it flips over, revealing a date on the back. He sighs softly and then presses his lips together, reaching for the phone on the table and inputting the six digits before holding the phone to his ear.

To his amazement and delight, it starts to ring, not immediately giving him an error code like he expected, and a moment later a posh, lady’s voice answers, “Customer complaints, how may I help you?”

“Umm, my name is Jaskier Pankratz- I mean, Julian Pankratz,” Jaskier starts, his voice uncertain and his words becoming more rushed as the gravity of the situation settles upon him, “And I’m up shit creek. I’m in Lettenhove police station and… my mum told me to call this number if I ever needed help. And, yeah. I need help.” He pauses and there’s silence on the other end, “So… hello? Are you still there?”

There’s another moment of silence before the woman says softly, “I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number.”

Jaskier panics for a moment, quickly stopping her from hanging up, “Wait! Wait uh… fuck what was it…” his mother had told him there’s a phrase to give to whoever he called when he used the number, but for the life of him he can’t remember what it is. He takes a deep breath to calm his fluttering heart, his mind racing to dredge up old memories. Oxenfurt not barracudas? Olives not bread? Oxfords… 

He hesitates before asking, “Oxfords not brogues?”

A pause. “Certainly, sir. Please hold.” Calm jazz music plays while he’s put on hold and Jaskier’s jaw slackens in disbelief at the surreal phone call he seems to be on. It doesn’t make any sense at all, that a number that isn’t a phone number would dial a customer complaint line for an unknown company, and a code about _shoes_ of all things would get the attention of the service woman. The music stops and she’s speaking again, “Thank you for holding, sir. Your complaint has been duly noted and we hope we haven’t lost you as a loyal customer. Goodbye.” 

She hangs up and Jaskier’s face falls as he slumps back in the chair again. Great.

* * *

In the dining room, Arthur slides the leather bound folder over to Vesemir and the door opens, Merlin stepping into the room with a clipboard on her arm and her hair tied in an artful updo. She doesn’t look like she’s aged a day, and Vesemir suspects she has elven blood granting her longevity. He does know that she’s had no small amount of plastic surgery as well to repair a hunched back and crooked jaw that she was born with, but that’s classified information in her medical file that he’s only privy to because he was the one who scouted her for hiring. 

“If you will, Merlin,” Arthur says and she nods, tapping on her clipboard and a large, antique mirror on the wall changes into a screen.

“Lancelot was investigating a group of mercenaries experimenting with biological weaponry,” she says and the screen changes to show a still image of a group of naked men who appear to be trying to eat each other. Vesemir’s stomach twists but his face remains unchanging as he listens to her, “Hakland, 2012. Synthetic cathinones.”

Vesemir frowns, “Like bath salts? The street drug?”

“They put it in the water supply at a guerilla army base,” Merlin nods, “rage, cannibalism, multiple fatalities.” The image on the screen changes to show the aftermath of a shooting, corpses littering the street, “Maecht, 2013. Insurgents turned on one another. Indisputably caused by our mercenaries. But this time, no trace of any chemical at all.”

“Unconnected with the first attacks?”

She shakes her head, “All their attacks were unconnected. And no political intrigue either.”

Vesemir hums and glances at Arthur, who is sitting quietly but attentively, “Well, they _are_ mercenaries. And... what happened to Lancelot?”

“I’m afraid this is where our story gets a bit… odd,” Merlin grimaces and taps her clipboard, and a blurry image of a large mountain chalet appears on the screen, “He tracked them to _this_ property, in Caingorn. And while he had them under surveillance, he became aware that they orchestrated a kidnapping. He tried to execute a solo rescue mission which… obviously failed.” She grows quiet for a moment before taking a breath and continuing in a steady voice, “This was his last transmission.”

The screen changes to and words appear on it: **KIDNAP VICTIM IS PROFESSOR ALDERT GEERT.**

“Doesn’t sound especially odd,” Vesemir raises an eyebrow at Merlin, “Who is he?”

She scoffs slightly then, but covers it up as a cough before explaining, “Some climate change doom-sayer. Expounds something called the ‘Gaia Theory’. Humans are a virus, earth trying to heal itself or some such.” She shakes her head in an unusual display of disgust, “Anyway, what’s odd is that he isn’t actually missing. This is him in Oxenfurt this morning.” An image appears of a short man with a thick beard and thinning brown hair walking across a street.

They all look at the image for a long while before Arthur breaks the silence, clearing his throat delicately, “Well, it’s all yours, Galahad. And don’t forget your membership proposal.”

Vesemir stands and picks up the file, tucking it under his arm with a nod, “9 P.M. at the base. Absolutely.”

“And Galahad?” Arthur stops him before he’s left, his hand on the door knob, “Do try picking a more suitable candidate this time, will you?”

Vesemir smirks in amusement, raising his gray eyebrows, “Seventeen years, Arthur… and still, the concept of evolving with the time remains an entirely foreign concept to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Nekkers are a popular brand of cigarettes. return to text  
> 2\. An 1815 Damboric is a rare brandy, fermented during the reign of King Damboric of Redania. return to text


	3. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Mention of Character Death

**[Lettenhove Police Station]**

Detective Tissaia DeVries is filling out paperwork on a relatively boring Wednesday afternoon, going through the steps of incarceration in the aftermath of her… “conversation” with Jaskier. Real name, Julian Pankratz, white male aged 21, bright future, if he can get himself under control. And maybe not so much anymore once he has a grand theft charge on his record. Before she can finalize the papers, the phone on her desk rings and she lifts it off the receiver.

“Detective DeVries,” she answers and then listens for a moment, her face settling into a displeased frown, “You _what_? ...I… yes. Yes, I totally understand.” She hangs up and looks down at the paperwork in confusion before sighing and picking it up. She doesn’t understand why they would choose to release Jaskier, but now she has to make a trip to the shredder.

* * *

The doors to the police station open and Jaskier steps out into the evening sunlight, shielding his eyes as he blinks rapidly to adjust them. He checks his phone for the time and starts to skip down the steps of the station when the window of a black cab rolls down and a man with long gray hair and a thick mustache leans over.

“Jaskier! Would you like a lift home?”

Jaskier looks up in confused suspicion, “Who are you?”

“The man who got you released.”

Jaskier regards him for a few long moments before deciding, what the hell, and opens the passenger seat of the car. If he’s gonna get murdered, he might as well be in a fancy car like this. He looks around in awe at the posh interior, twisting around to look in the back seat and his jaw drops at the sight of a decanter of whiskey and two glasses in the center console.

“Is this a kit car?” Jaskier asks, sitting up again to look at his savior. He doesn’t know of any non-custom cars that are as posh as this, and if it’s from a kit like he thinks, then this man has more money than Jaskier’s ever had in his life.

The man glances over at Jaskier with a small, amused smile, “It’s a Velen1. One of the finest examples of Cidarian engineering.”

Jaskier grins teasingly, “So it’s shit, then.”

“It’s only seven minutes to your flat from here, do you really want to spend it talking about my car?” 

“How do you know where I live?”

“When are you going to ask me a more interesting question?” 

Jaskier huffs and crosses his arms, feeling the beginning sparks of irritation, “Alright, here’s two. Who the fuck are you and how did you get me out?”

The man chuckles, “Badly phrased but a good effort. My name is Vesemir Morhen, I work for a Keracki tailors called Kingsman, and I gave you that cross.” At the mention of the medallion, Jaskier brings a hand to his chest to feel for it beneath his shirt. “Your mother saved my life.”

“ _Deidre_ saved your life?”

Vesemir looks bemused, “Your _other_ mother.”

“You were in the army? Like an officer?” Jaskier raises his eyebrows curiously.

“Not exactly.”

“Never met anybody who knew my ma,” he muses, “‘cept my mum, obviously.” He suddenly feels indebted to this strange, clearly rich, man and turns to face him again, “Listen, can I buy you a drink? Like as a thank you?”

Vesemir nods and turns onto a street towards the pub Jaskier frequents with his friends, “Splendid idea.”

He grimaces as they pull into the lot, the tire marks of his donuts from earlier still on the pavement, “Yeah, maybe not here, though? You won’t like it, trust me.” It’s a dodgy place and this guy looks like he’d want to drink at a gastropub or something posh.

“Nonsense,” Vesemir reaches into the backseat and retrieves an umbrella, “It says they have Kaedwen Draft2, what more could you ask for?”

He gets out of the car and starts for the door to the pub and Jaskier gets out reluctantly, dragging his feet slightly as he follows the older man inside and to the same booth he had been occupying with his friends that same day. He glances around nervously as he looks for Jamal and his gang, and sighs silently in relief when there’s no sign of anyone in the pub except for Zoltan, the dwarven barkeep, behind the bar and watching another football match as he polishes an already clean glass.

Jaskier goes to the bar and gets two pints of Kaedwen Draft as Vesemir settles into the booth, bringing the glasses of ale over and sitting down across from him. He’s dressed in a smart suit and has thick glasses on and Jaskier avoids the urge to grimace at the blatant displays of wealth on this man’s wrist and cuffs.

“Cheers,” Jaskier says as he passes one of the pints to Vesemir, taking a sip of his own and then setting it aside to lean forward, “So, where were you posted? You and my ma? Hakland or something?”

“I’m sorry, Jaskier, that’s classified,” Vesemir drains half of his pint as Jaskier sits back and watches him with sharp blue eyes.

“I thought my mum was on the fiss pipe when she told me about the number. Feel a bit guilty now.”

Vesemir regards him silently before starting in a voice that brokers no interruptions, “So, you want to know something about your mum? The day she died, I missed something. And if it weren’t for your mum’s courage, my mistake would have cost the lives of every man and woman present. So I owe her, she was a brave woman, a _good_ woman. And, having read your files, I think she’d be bitterly disappointed in the choices you’ve made.”

Jaskier blinks and outrage pours out of his mouth, “Woah! Hang the fuck on, you can’t just be saying shit about me like that!”

“I can and I will,” Vesemir continues calmly, “Huge IQ, great performance in primary school… Then it all went tits up, drugs, petty crime, never had a job-”

“Think there’s a lot of jobs going ‘round here, do you?” Jaskier interrupts snidely.

“Doesn’t explain why you quit the Temerian military,” Vesemir points out as though he hadn’t been interrupted, “You were halfway through training, and doing brilliantly, might I add, and then you just gave up.”

Jaskier’s mouth is open in angry shock and he sits up, jabbing a finger at Vesemir, “Because my mum went mental! Banging on about losing me as well as my ma! Didn’t want me becoming cannon fodder for snobs like _you_ . Judging people like me from your ivory towers with no thought about why we do what we do. We don’t got much choice, hear me? And I’d bet, if we were born with the same silver spoons up our _arses_ , we’d do just as good as you! Even better maybe!”

In his worked up state, Jaskier fails to notice the door opening and Jamal entering with his lackeys until a nasally voice sneers, “The fuck are you doing here? You taking the piss?”

Jaskier looks up in surprise and jumps to his feet, nearly knocking over his still-full pint but grabbing it at the last second as the glass tips. Vesemir watches apathetically, raising a single eyebrow at Jaskier, “Some more examples of young men who simply need a silver suppository?”

“No, there are exceptions,” Jaskier grunts, setting the pint down again and nodding his head to the door, “Come on, let’s go.”

“Nonsense,” Vesemir picks up his own glass and swirls the remaining beer in it, “We haven’t finished our drinks yet.” 

Jamal stalks over with his gang and Zoltan watches nervously from behind the bar, unwilling to intervene. Jaskier leans away from Jamal’s foul breath as the man snarls at him.

“I done told Roben what you did. He says that makes you fair game, doesn’t give a shit what your mum says.”

“Listen, boys,” Vesemir sighs, still eyeing the rest of his pint, “I’ve had a very frustrating day, and regardless of what your beef with Jaskier is, which I’m sure is _very_ well-founded, I’d appreciate it enormously if you could just leave us in peace until I’ve finished this lovely pint of Kaedwen.”

Jamal looks at Vesemir incredulously before crossing his arms, “Better get out of the way, granddad, or you’re gonna get hurt and all.”

“He ain’t joking,” Jaskier says warningly, glancing at Vesemir, “I appreciate what you’ve done for me but you’d best be going.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Vesemir gets to his feet and picks up his umbrella, heading for the door. The gang watches and Jamal jeers, “you want another rent boy? They’re on the corner of Foltest Street!” His lackeys laugh with him and Jaskier’s fingers twitch with rage.

Vesemir walks to the door but pauses before it, his back to the room. Then, as he reaches up for the bolt at the top of the door, he speaks, “Manners.” He locks the door and slaps the lock shut. “Maketh.” He locks the second door in the same manner. “Man,” he slides the deadbolt shut as well, “Do you know what that means?” 

Jamal and his gang advance towards the older man and Jaskier grimaces, why didn’t he just leave? Now he’s going to witness an old man get beat up and it’ll be his fault for not trying harder to protect him. His fault for allowing them to even stop at this pub instead of literally any other pub in Kerack. He balls his hands into fists, ready to jump in to protect Vesemir if needed, when Vesemir continues speaking:

“Then let me teach you a lesson.”

Time seems to slow down as he reaches out with his umbrella, hooking the curved end of it around a glass on a nearby table, and flinging the glass backwards as he turns so that it hits Jamal square in the face. The glass shatters upon impact and Jamal falls back to the ground, nose broken and face bloodied from the shards. Jaskier staggers back in surprise, his calves hitting the bench again and he falls into his seat in the booth as he watches Vesemir stalk forward, suddenly looking like a predator. Jamal’s gang looks stunned as they glance between Jamal’s prone body and Vesemir.

“Well, are we going to stand around all day or are we going to fight?”

They look at Vesemir for a moment longer before one in a red hoodie scowls and rears back, swinging a hard punch towards the man’s face. He deflects it, using his umbrella to redirect the punch, and the momentum carries Red Hoodie through to socking his friend on the jaw, knocking teeth out of the guy’s mouth as he falls back and smashes his face on the bar. Sneakers squeak across the wooden floor of the pub as they rush Vesemir, who leans back to solidly kick the first one away.

Vesemir then adjusts his grip on the umbrella so that he’s holding it in two hands, using it to knock away the fist of the tallest of the gang members before putting his shoulder behind the umbrella as he uses it to reinforce a hit of his own. Tallest falls back on the ground and Vesemir uses the handle to hit a guy in a blue jacket to his left in the solar plexus, making him grunt and stumble back. On his right, a guy with a shaved head reaches for him and he turns to punch him in the nose, grabbing his wrist in the same hand holding the umbrella.

As Vesemir turns back to the others, Red Hoodie is back with a knife, so he pulls Shaved Head in front of him to act as a shield. The knife sinks into Shaved Head’s shoulder. He looks at Red Hoodie in pained surprise and Red Hoodie removes the knife, looking at the blood on it for a moment. That moment is all Vesemir needs to sweep one leg of Shaved Head out from under him, making him drop to his hands and knees.

Vesemir ducks as he dodges a swing from Blue Jacket, who stumbles past him into the door, and then uses the umbrella again to swing upwards into Shaved Head’s face, knocking him away from Vesemir’s feet. Jaskier is watching in awed surprise, still completely seated as the unbelievable fight unfolds before his eyes. 

Blue Jacket has recovered and has a knife of his own, grunting as he swings at Vesemir, who ducks and extends the umbrella out to hook beneath Blue Jacket’s arm, pulling him to be in front of the suited man. He then tilts the tip of the umbrella up and grabs it in his other hand, effectively trapping Blue Jacket’s shoulder so that if he were to move he’d dislocate it. With a roar, Bar Face pulls a knife of his own and surges forward.

Vesemir twists to avoid the stab, pulling Blue Jacket with him as he turns the umbrella and uses it as a shield, bashing Bar Face with it and making him stumble back against the bar once more. Bar Face’s hand shatters a glass upon it, the shards sticking in his skin and turning it as bloody as his shattered teeth. He growls and grabs a bottle from behind the bar, turning and lifting it to throw, when Vesemir angles the tip of the umbrella forward and something shoots out of it.

A thin wire, with hooks on either end, flies through the air and wraps around Bar Face’s wrist. It turns blue as it electrifies, and must also be magnetic since it pulls Bar Face back. It sticks itself to the copper pipes decorating the bar while shocking Bar Face. Jaskier’s stunned awe has turned to delight as he grins, any doubts he had about Vesemir’s capability to defend himself having faded in the last minute.

Vesemir spins as he rotates the umbrella to release Blue Jacket’s arm while knocking him off balance, and then braces both hands on the umbrella again to bash it against Blue Jacket’s chest, sending him flying back into a table which collapses under his weight. Tallest has gotten back to his feet so Vesemir turns and hooks the end of the umbrella behind Tallest’s neck, hauling him forward so that his head slams with a sickening crunch against Shaved Head’s, as Shaved Head also gets to his feet. Both of them cry out and fall back, knocked unconscious by the collision.

Red Hoodie has come back and jabs at Vesemir, who grabs his arm and spins them around so that Red Hoodie’s back is to his front, the curved handle of his umbrella wrapped around Red Hoodie’s neck and choking him. He kicks the back of Red Hoodie’s knee to make it buckle before shoving Red Hoodie away and planting the sole of his foot firmly into Hoodie’s lower back as he kicks, sending him flying into the bar and denting the copper piping.

From the floor, Jamal has awoken again and gets to his feet, withdrawing a pistol from the front of his pants. He lifts it and aims at Vesemir, who spots the movement and raises his umbrella as he opens it while dropping into a crouch behind it. Jamal fires again and again, the bullets bouncing harmlessly off of Vesemir’s umbrella, while he swears and shouts at the older man.

“You fucking dirty little- fucking dirty- fucking-” Jamal can’t seem to get his insult all the way out even as his gun runs out of ammunition and the trigger clicks audibly. He looks almost surprised that he’s run out of bullets, pulling the gun back to look at it in confusion, and Vesemir twists the handle ring on his umbrella before pulling a trigger on the shaft. A rubber bullet flies out and hits Jamal on the forehead, knocking him back to the ground, unconscious.

Jaskier is amazed, his mouth hanging open and his eyes bright with glee, as Vesemir gets back to his feet and closes the umbrella. The beeping of buttons on a telephone grabs Vesemir’s attention, as Zoltan dials the police, and he hooks his umbrella over his wrist while turning the face of his watch. Something small shoots out of it and hits Zoltan in the neck, the bartender clapping his hand over the impact sight, and the feathered tail of a tiny dart sticks between his fingers as he drops to the ground.

Vesemir takes a deep breath and walks back to the booth, settling in across from Jaskier once more and exhaling in a heavy sigh as he picks up his pint glass and drains the rest of the Kaedwen from it. Jaskier watches him with wide eyes, his mouth still hanging open as an awed wonder, mixed with a healthy amount of respectful fear, decorates his face.

Vesemir heaves another sigh as he sits back, slouching a bit in the seat and turning his pale brown eyes onto Jaskier, “Sorry about that. Had to let off a little steam. Heard this morning that a friend of mine recently passed. He knew your mother, too. Funny.”

Jaskier glances towards the bar where Zoltan had collapsed and Vesemir follows his gaze, “Ah. He’ll be alright, just a little tranquilizer. Mixed with something to blank a couple hours of memory. Not terribly different from what they give you at the dentist.” He then raises his wrist, twisting the watch face again and aiming at Jaskier, “I’m terribly sorry, Jaskier. I shouldn’t have done this in front of you.”

Jaskier’s heart stutters as blind panic fills his mind. He throws his hands up defensively, leaning back in the seat and away from Vesemir’s extended fist, “No, please! I won’t say anything, I swear! If there’s one thing I _can_ do, it’s keep my mouth shut. Ask anyone, ask the feds! I’ve never grassed someone up!”

“You won’t tell a soul, is that a promise?” Vesemir arches an eyebrow and Jaskier nods frantically, his hair flopping over his forehead.

“On my life.”

He sighs in relief and lowers his wrist, turning the face of his watch back to its starting position, “Much appreciated, Jaskier. And you’re right about the snobs. But there too, there are exceptions. Best of luck with everything.” 

Without another word, Vesemir stands and claps Jaskier amicably on the shoulder, squeezing lightly, before leaving the pub with Jaskier’s wide blue eyes watching his retreating back.

* * *

**[Toussaint]**

In the large castle that marks the home of the royalty of Toussaint, a man with a shaved head and bushy black eyebrows is holding up a photo of Lancelot as he sits before an audience of one with Fringilla lurking at the edge of the room.

“Great. _You_ don’t know, the Blue Stripes doesn’t know, nobody knows who this guy is! Fine. Seriously! It’s fine,” he pauses before adding, “Well, it’s _not_ fine, but it’s not why I’m here.” He sets aside the photo and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“Look, you _know_ me, money has never been my issue. All I ever heard at Oxenfurt was how lucky I was to inherit an oil fortune. So I went to N.I.T. 3 instead and then all of a sudden my tech company is worth more than my oil company, knocked myself off the Forbes top spot, yadda, yadda, yadda. Point _is_ , you know where the profit went.” He sighs and looks out the window behind his audience for a moment before continuing.

“Tried to save the planet. Climate change research, lobbying. _Years_ of work, _billions_ of dollars. And you know why I quit?” He turns his gaze back to the person in front of him, “Because the last time I checked, the planet was still screwed!” He stands up from the passion in his words, starting to pace back and forth in front of the desk.

“So here’s my epiphany: money can’t solve this. The idiots who call themselves politicians have buried their heads in the sand, stood for nothing but reelection. These last two years? I’ve looked for a real solution, and I found it. And if you really want to make the world a better place, listen the hell up, very carefully, because I’m gonna tell it to you.”

He stops pacing and turns to look at the king sitting in front of him with steepled fingers and an intrigued expression. “Go on, Mr. O’Dimm. As usual, I’m all ears.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. These luxury vehicles were first produced in Gors Velen in Cidaris. return to text  
> 2\. A dark beer, like a Guinness Draft. return to text  
> 3\. Nilfgaard Institute of Technology. return to text


	4. III

Jaskier did not immediately go home after the pub fight, as one might expect. No, he knows what’s waiting for him there, so instead he goes to Priscilla’s place to spend the night and hide with her and Essi, the three of them watching lame movies and smoking pot until he’s decided that he’s put it off long enough and drags himself back to his flat. His feet feel heavy with dread as he climbs the stairs to the flat, the evening sun bright against the fading and new graffiti, and he takes a deep breath before unlocking the door to the flat and stepping inside.

The tv is on, set to the news, while his mother and Roben lounge on the couch and Ciri sleeps nearby in her pack-n-play. The reporter is talking about a missing celebrity, but the rest of the report is drowned out as both Deidre and Roben jump to their feet.

“Where the hell have you been?” Jaskier’s mother demands, “Gone all night, all day, I’ve been worried sick! Widow Olga said-” she’s cut off as Roben surges forward and punches Jaskier across the face, knocking him back against the wall next to the door. “Roben!”

Roben grabs the front of Jaskier’s shirt, twisting it in his fist, as he proceeds to hit him again in the stomach and then again in the face, “Shut your mouth! I’ve had it with him! He needs to learn some _respect_! Winding up my kid, nicking his car!” Roben turns to Jaskier and slams him back against the wall, Jaskier coughing and wheezing for breath, “And now your mate’s gone and put four of them in hospital! Who is he? Who was with you in that pub?”

“No one!” Jaskier shouts, trying to get his hands up to protect himself, but he was caught off guard and now he’s struggling to breathe.

“Roben, stop it!” Deidre cries and Ciri starts wailing from all the yelling, “Jaskier, just tell him!”

“I wasn’t with no one! I don’t know what he’s talking about!”

Roben hits him again and Jaskier groans, “You’re fucking lying! Who the fuck was that with you?”

“I don’t know what you’re on about!”

“Who was it?”

“ _I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about_!”

Roben crowds close to him, his breath reeking of booze and cigarettes, as he snarls, “I could kill you, right now, and the world wouldn’t even notice.”

Suddenly, a voice comes out of every electronic device in the room, and Jaskier recognizes it instantly. “But I would,” Vesemir says. They all look around in startled surprise, Roben and Deidre looking baffled.

“I have enough evidence on your activities to have you locked away for the rest of your life, Mr. Roben Jorgan Baker. So I suggest you leave the boy alone or I will be forced to deliver it to the appropriate authorities.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Roben spits, pulling away from Jaskier just enough for him to break free and rip the door open, dashing outside.

“And I suggest that from now on you treat Deidre with the respect that she deserves. Over and out.” Vesemir’s transmission ends and the volume on the tv turns back on, the news anchor discussing Gaunter O’Dimm’s newest technological advancements.

After a beat of silence, Roben chases Jaskier out of the apartment, “Oi! Get back here you little shit!”

Jaskier ignores him and hops over the concrete railing of the hallway, running along the drainage system to get down to the street faster than if he took the stairs. He hops across the gap to the other drain pipe and then jumps down the last six feet, rolling as he lands to absorb the impact. He glances up at Roben’s outraged face in the third floor hallway and smugly flicks him a double bird before turning and walking down the street.

He wanders for a while, unsure of where to go but certain that he can’t return home. He doesn’t want to go back to Priscilla and Essi’s place already, he’s taken up enough of their time, but he also doesn’t have any other friends or a partner with whom to take refuge. Actually… there is one place he might be able to go. Whether it’s open or not is an entirely different scenario but…

Jaskier pulls his phone out and searches for directions to Kingsman tailor shop, surprised to find that it’s only a few kilometers from where he wandered. With that in mind, he pockets his phone and makes his way to the shop, slowing to a stop in front of the large glass window with three beautiful suit jackets displayed behind it. Jaskier looks up at the words painted on the glass, and then at the front door, the lights in the shop still on despite the late hour. He hesitates only a moment longer before pulling the door open and walking inside to the gentle chime of a bell.

Vesemir is seated on a leather couch, nursing a glass of spirits as he waits. Jaskier glances around at the posh interior, having never been in a tailors shop before, and then gently clearing his throat. He gets the feeling that Vesemir wasn’t unaware of his presence, especially with the bell over the door, but was waiting patiently for Jaskier to be ready for him, as the older gentleman looks up with a pleasantly calm expression.

“I don’t know much about tailors,” Jaskier starts, his hands deep in his pockets, “But I know you ain’t one.”

Vesemir smiles, “Glad you made it.” He stands, setting the whiskey down on the table in front of him, and says, “Follow me.” He then leads Jaskier into a large fitting room with a golden 1 on the door, closing it gently behind them and then turning so that they’re looking in the tri-fold mirror. There’s a life-size wooden horse to the side as well as a pair of small, cushioned arm chairs on its opposite.

“Do you know what I see?” Vesemir asks, looking at Jaskier in their reflection.

Jaskier glances at him and then looks at their reflection as well. Vesemir stands proud and tall behind him, even as they’re nearly of the same height, clad in his fancy suit and with his hair neatly styled. Jaskier looks like shit in contrast, his clothing rumpled and his hair mussed, a bruise blossoming on his face from where Roben hit him. He looks pale and a bit shaky and totally incomparable to Vesemir. What does he see?

Jaskier frowns, “Someone who wants to know what the _fuck_ is going on.”

Vesemir’s lips twitch and he rests his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, “I see a young man who has potential. A young man who is loyal and can do as he’s asked. Who wants to do something good with his life. Have you seen the film Trading Places?”

“No.”

“What about Nikita? The Dirty Dozen?” Jaskier shakes his head. “Pretty Woman?”

His face twists into an affronted expression as he looks at Vesemir in their reflection.

“Alright, my point is, the lack of a silver spoon has set you on a certain path. But you needn’t stay on it,” Vesemir removes his hands and places them in his pockets, “If you’re prepared to adapt, and learn, you can transform.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up and he smiles hesitantly as he asks, “Like in My Fair Lady?”

Vesemir looks briefly surprised before smiling back, “Well, you’re full of surprises. Yes. Like in My Fair Lady. Interested?” Jaskier pauses only for a moment before nodding. “Good, because I’m offering you the opportunity to become a Kingsman.”

“A tailor?” Jaskier raises his eyebrows.

“A Kingsman _agent,_ ” Vesemir clarifies and Jaskier sounds amused as he replies:

“Like a spy?”

“Of sorts.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh and Vesemir’s expression doesn’t change as he asks again, “So? Interested?”

He hesitates for only a moment before shrugging slightly, “Like I’ve got anything to lose.”

Vesemir nods, pleased, “Good, now get on that horse.” He tilts his head at the wooden horse.

“Are you taking the piss?” Jaskier asks, and when Vesemir doesn’t answer his cheeks flame red while he follows directions, feeling extremely silly as he climbs onto it. “Alright, what’s this for?”

“So that a gentleman can see how his new jacket hangs when mounted. Now, give it a kick and say: ‘tally ho’.”

“Fuck off!” Jaskier’s face feels hot and the embarrassed blush creeps down his neck. Again, Vesemir doesn’t respond and Jaskier huffs, ducking his head as he mumbles, “tally ho,” and nudges the horse’s sides with his heels. Nothing happens and he looks at Vesemir sharply, “What does that do?”

“Nothing,” Vesemir looks bemused as he reaches forward and presses his hand to the glass of the mirror, something beeping quietly after he does so, “I just wanted to see how you were at following orders. Now, get down and pull the third hook from the left.”

Jaskier glares at him and slips off of the horse, crossing the room to the hooks on the wall, “I swear, if this doesn’t do anything either…” he lets his threat go unfinished and still pulls on the hook anyway, his eyes widening in surprise when it shifts downwards.

The room shudders for a second before beginning to sink, the floor lowering through a brick shaft and leaving behind the wooden horse, which is bolted to the wall. Jaskier looks around in wonder before turning to Vesemir, “What _is_ this place?”

“The finest tailors in Kerack.”

“No, I mean… all this?” Jaskier gestures broadly with an all-encompassing sweep of his arms and Vesemir smiles at him.

“Since 1849, Kingsman has clothed all the world’s most powerful individuals. By 1919, a great number of them had lost their heirs to the Nilfgaardian War. That meant a lot of money, going uninherited, and a lot of powerful men and women with the desire to preserve peace and protect life. Our founders realized that they could channel that wealth and influence for the greater good. And so began our other venture.”

The floor is still descending and Jaskier looks up curiously at the long shaft above them as Vesemir continues, “An independent, international intelligence agency operating at the highest level of discretion. Above the bureaucracy and politics that undermine the integrity of government-run spy organizations.” 

He looks at Jaskier until their eyes meet, holding the young man’s attention, “The suit is a modern gentleman’s armor. And Kingsman are the new knights.”

Jaskier nods slightly and then glances up again, “How deep does this fucking thing go?”

“Deep enough.”

* * *

The floor finally stopped moving when they reached a sleek platform, deep below the earth, that looks similar to a subway station. Jaskier raises his eyebrows and follows Vesemir off of the elevator, looking around in intrigue as a faint whooshing sound echoes through the room. He yelps slightly and jumps back as a capsule-like train carriage pulls into the station at high velocity, stopping suddenly and opening up for them.

Vesemir steps into the carriage and Jaskier cautiously follows him, looking around at the four reclined seats and taking the one across from the older man. Vesemir clicks his seatbelt in place and Jaskier scrambles to do the same, the train taking off again the moment the lock has latched. Jaskier grabs onto the arms of the chair, his heart pounding as the carriage hurtles through tunnels at unfathomable speeds.

“Holy _shit_.”

“Don’t worry,” Vesemir says calmly, crossing his legs, “It’s perfectly safe. Standard mag-lev system, er, magnets. Our vacuum tunnel just makes it a bit nippier, but it rarely goes above mach one. Are you alright?”

Jaskier looks at him, “Where are we going?”

“HQ,” Vesemir leans back in his seat with a smile, “We’re beginning the selection process of a new member, and if you agree, I’d like to put you forward as my proposal.”

The carriage stops moving and they both climb out, Jaskier a bit shakier than Vesemir, and when he looks up he’s faced with massive floor-to-ceiling windows that reveal an enormous hangar, filled with airplanes and vehicles of all sizes. Jaskier’s jaw drops as he takes a few steps forward, his breath catching in amazement.

“Impressive, no?” Vesemir asks and Jaskier nods in agreement, rendered speechless by the view, “Jaskier, there’s one last thing I need to tell you before you make up your mind.”

“As if I’m going to bail out now,” he rolls his eyes but gives Vesemir his attention.

“Your mother, she tried out for membership of Kingsman. She was on her final field test when she died,” Vesemir’s voice is gentle, yet serious, “This business isn’t without risks.”

Jaskier looks at him firmly, his shoulders drawn back as he stands at his full height, “Like I said, I haven’t got anything to lose.”

Vesemir nods, a bit sadly, and gestures for Jaskier to follow him, “Then let’s get you signed in.”

He leads Jaskier through winding halls until they reach a barracks room filled with twelve cots, the sheets of which are made neatly and upon the end of the beds are yellow squares of folded fabric. There’s four other men, three dwarves, three woman, and an elf, all dressed in suits of their own that aren’t as nice as the ones Jaskier’s seen Vesemir in, but are certainly nicer than his own dirty tee shirt and stained jeans.

“Galahad,” a woman’s voice comes from his right and Jaskier jumps slightly, whipping his head to the side to see an imposing woman with violet eyes and raven hair, “Late again.”

Jaskier isn’t sure who she’s addressing until Vesemir leans forward and says quietly to him, “My code name. Good luck, Jaskier.” Vesemir pats him on the shoulder before leaving, hesitating at the door like he’s dropping his child off at daycare for the first time. He then closes the door behind him and Jaskier looks back at the group of other young adults, nerves fluttering in his stomach.

Most of the others blend into one another, but three of them stand out. The first is one of the girls, with a round face and mousy brown hair, her eyes soft and kind as she smiles at one of the other girls. The next is one of the men, with almost garishly yellow, blond hair and a curled mustache that Jaskier instantly dislikes. The last is the tallest, aside from Jaskier himself, and is standing quietly as he listens to the conversation, his hair so light blond it’s nearly white and eyes a golden, honey brown.

Jaskier gravitates towards them, unsure as to what he should do and still feeling a bit self-conscious about his clothing and how grubby he looks. He’s very aware of the bruise on his cheek and the lingering stench of low-quality weed that clings to his shirt as he sidles up to the tallest man, opening his mouth to try and break the ice.

“I love the way you just stand in the corner and brood.”

The man looks over with clear amusement in his eyes as the corners of his lips twitch. But before he can say anything, the raven-haired woman barks out, “Attention!”

Everyone snaps to attention with their hands behind their backs, except for Jaskier who chose to stand in a parade rest and, after glancing at the others, shuffles his feet and clasps his hands behind him as well, his face flushing red. The man beside Jaskier doesn’t take his eyes off of the woman, but a small smile curls his lips and he reaches over to discreetly pat Jaskier’s back in reassurance.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the woman walks forward a few steps, a clipboard in the crook of her arm, “now we’re all here, welcome. My name is Merlin, and you are about to embark upon what is arguably the most dangerous job interview in the world. Failure in any of the tests you’ll undergo over the coming months will mean you lose your chance at this job. But I need you to be aware that you could lose a great deal more.” She steps over to one of the beds and lifts up one of the yellow squares, “Can somebody tell me what this is?”

After a beat of silence, the garishly blond man raises his hand, “A body bag, ma’am.”

Merlin nods her head at him, dropping the bag back onto the cot, “Correct. Valdo, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Excellent.” She steps away from the cot to face them fully again, “In the lockers beneath your beds, you will find a marker pen. Use it to write your name on the bag, plus contact details for your next of kin. By doing so, you acknowledge the risks you face. You also acknowledge that you will never discuss your time here, even with your families. You break this rule, you put them at risk.

“Why is this process so dangerous? Because the job you are competing for is a hundred times more so. If you’re not up to it, we’d prefer to know now, and not later, when the lives of others may depend on it. Does anybody want out?” Merlin looks over them all and the potential-trainees glance at one another. Jaskier’s eyes meet the golden brown of the man beside him and they quickly look away from one another.

“When you’re done with your bags, bed,” Merlin says definitively, “Your uniforms are in the same lockers as the marker pen. Long day ahead tomorrow. Fall out!” With that final command, Merlin turns and leaves the bunk.

Silence reigns until the door shuts fully and then chatter fills the air, the others having already gotten to know each other enough to be friendly before Jaskier had arrived. He feels a bit out of sorts and blinks in surprise to find a pale hand thrust in his face, looking up to see that it belongs to the tall man.

“Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde,” he introduces himself, his voice deep and gravelly, “But just Geralt is fine.”

Jaskier is delighted and grasps Geralt’s hand, giving it a few enthusiastic pumps, “Jaskier.”

“Jasper?” Geralt confirms.

He shakes his head, pronouncing more clearly, “ _Jaskier_.”

Nearby, Valdo regards Jaskier with disdain, his loud voice carrying as he smirks, “Jasper? And just where did they dig _you_ up?”

“You know we’re not allowed to discuss who proposed us,” Geralt says calmly.

One of the women, dark-skinned and beautiful, quickly jumps into the conversation, “There’s no need to bite his head off. He’s only making conversation, aren’t you, Valdo? I’m Téa, and this is my cousin, Véa,” she gestures to the third woman of the group, who looks similar by familial relation, before they both shake Jaskier’s hand. “Véa, Jasper.”

“So, Jasper, are you Oxenfurt or Kaer Morhen?” Véa asks, raising a single eyebrow.

Téa stifles a laugh and Valdo smirks as Jaskier’s heart sinks. Guess he’s not going to be making many friends outside of Geralt, but that’s fine. He’s used to the odds being stacked against him, “Neither.”

“Gors Velen?” Valdo snickers and Jaskier glowers.

“Wait,” Véa says thoughtfully, “I think we may have met… Did you serve me at the McDonald’s at Caingorn airport?”

Jaskier settles back on his heels, an easy smile falling on his face as his eyes glint dangerously, “No, but if I had I would have given you an extra helping of ‘secret sauce’.” He winks and mimes wanking off.

“Definitely Gors Velen,” Valdo mutters and the three of them burst into laughter.

Geralt shakes his head and turns Jaskier away by the shoulder, “Just ignore them.” 

“You need a pen?” the round-faced girl walks over, cutting into their conversation with a kind smile.

“Cheers,” Jaskier takes it, removing the information card from his body bag to fill it out. The blank spaces taunt him and he can’t help but feel like he might be making a huge mistake. The room seems to be getting smaller and the air thinner as his heart pounds in his chest, blood rushing in his ears, but before he can fall too deep into a panicked spiral, Geralt’s voice pulls him out of it again.

“Marilka, isn’t it?” At Marilka’s nod, Geralt nods at Jaskier, “Marilka, Jaskier.”

“Hey, Jaskier,” she extends a hand to firmly shake Jaskier’s and he feels his dread abate slightly, “Don’t pay any notice to those guys.”

“That’s what I told him.”

Jaskier writes his name out, choosing to use his nickname versus his given, and then below it, in a slightly shaking hand, he writes: “Mother: Deirdre Ademeyn”. Geralt notices his trembling hand and stands up, placing his own hand on Jaskier’s shoulder.

“It’s just scare tactics, classic army technique. No one’s gonna die.”

Jaskier glances up at Valdo, Téa, and Véa, who are all currently hooting at something Valdo said; and, with a wry smile, mutters, “Shame.”


	5. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about the delay! This fic is fully written, but I want to put art every other chapter, and my brain decided to stop doing any art at all for a while which was frustrating. However, I've now broken my leg (literally) so I have nothing to distract me from completing the art pieces for this fic! Thank you for everyone's patience and please enjoy!

The night has settled in and Vesemir is sipping from a glass of scotch as he sits in the dining room with Arthur, the two of them watching the antique mirror screen as it plays a live feed of the barracks. He had struggled a bit with the idea of bringing Jaskier here, worried that he was just replacing Renfri, even seventeen years later, but the more time he spends with the boy the more their differences stand out, even with how similar he and Renfri are.

Strong-willed, stubborn, easily angered, but also loyal, quick-witted, and adaptable. Everything that made Renfri an excellent candidate as a Kingsman agent he also sees in Jaskier, and more. The boy is wily, smart as a whip, and has reflexes he hasn’t seen in anyone in years. Jaskier’s inherent moral compass is solid as well, even as he was doing illegal things he always, secretly, would do something else to balance out the order.

Arthur interrupts his silent musing with an almost disgusted sound, “Felt sorry for the boy, did you?” 

“Not at all,” Vesemir shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from the screen and from watching Jaskier chat with that boy Geralt and girl Marilka.

“Well you should now. He’s going to find this humiliating. Still, at least you didn’t propose a _dwarf_ ,” Arthur’s eyes are on the three dwarven boys, “I mean, what is going on?”

Vesemir raises his eyebrows and gestures at the closeup of Valdo, who’s commanding the conversation he’s holding with the girls and a few others, “Hmm, and that’s your proposal? Valdo, is it? All the right credentials besides having any understanding of the real world. He’ll be a perfect replacement for you one day.”

Arthur’s lips twitch with displeasure and he taps a control panel on the table, muting the mirror screen, “I believe we’re here to discuss new intelligence on the mercenaries?”

Vesemir allows the topic change and nods, “Absolutely. The mountain property where Lancelot died was purchased eighteen months ago. The funds were transferred from a numbered account at the BGK bank in Poviss.”

“Then that’s as good as a dead end.”

“Why?”

“I interrogated them, decades ago now, to ensure how far one could go before they would break and tell me information about their clientele. I very nearly killed one of their tellers and yet they still refused me the details,” Arthur leans back in his chair and laces his fingers together on the table, “And that is why we bank with them. Not to mention that their firewall makes the RSS’s look flimsy. You’re looking at a physical break-in, and even that’s ambitious.”

Vesemir looks at him for a long moment as he thinks before nodding, “To Poviss it is then.”

* * *

As they prepare for bed, Marilka, Téa, and Véa take the three cots closest to the wet room. An exposed area with three steel toilets and standing showers, each with four handheld nozzles that are hooked into the overhead position. A low wall hides the toilets, with basins set into it for washing hands. Otherwise, there is no privacy.

“Ooh, all the girls together. Planning a little action?” Valdo taunts but Marilka quickly hits back with:

“Why? Do you need some tips?”

Jaskier’s bed is between Geralt and Véa, and he looks through the locker beneath it with a frown, pulling out a heavy, velvet jumpsuit. It’s a neutral brown color, with elastic at the waist to give the illusion of a belt and a zipper down the torso. He’s not the only one looking through his locker, either, as one of the boys pulls out his own jumpsuit.

“What the hell is this?” 

“Regulation gear, I guess?” Geralt says with a shrug, holding up his own suit, “But why velvet? It’s so heavy.”

“And hot,” Jaskier mutters in agreement.

Valdo speaks up next and Jaskier has to fight the urge to punch his stupid face, “The Siren jumpsuit. King Medell1 designed it for himself. Not that I’d expect you foreigners to know.”

“Kerack is _in_ Temeria,” Jaskier points out, “I’m Temerian.”

“I wasn’t even _talking_ to you,” Valdo sneers, “I think it goes without saying that _you_ wouldn’t.”

Jaskier frowns and puts the jumpsuit back in his locker, his discomfort increasing as everyone around him starts to undress for bed. He’s not unfamiliar with a barracks setting, but even in the Temerian Army he wasn’t a fan of the lack of privacy their bunks afforded them. He keeps his eyes politely averted as he tries to figure out what to do, he’s not going to sleep in his jeans after all.

“Where’s your stuff?” Geralt asks and Jaskier looks up, only to quickly glance away again as Geralt is only in his briefs and is _very_ fit. Really, he just ticks every one of Jaskier’s boxes and that’s not something Jaskier needed to know right now.

“No one told me to bring anything,” he shrugs, finding a spot on the floor extremely interesting as his fingers fidget with a ring on his finger, “So I didn’t have anything when I got here other than what I’m wearing.”

Geralt frowns and turns back to his open suitcase, “That sucks, wanna borrow something to sleep in?”

A pair of striped pants are tossed onto his bed and Jaskier glances up to give Geralt a grateful look before removing his shirt and swapping clothes quickly. Just as he’s finished folding his jeans, the lights in the barracks turn off, plunging them all into almost complete darkness save for dim bars of lights at the head of each cot.

“Looks like it’s bedtime,” Marilka states after the groans of disgruntled adults have died off. No one corrects her and they all climb under the covers, dropping off one-by-one. Jaskier lies awake for a long time, just staring at the ceiling as he remains deep in thought about everything that’s happened to him over the past two days. 

It’s clear that Valdo wants him to fail, and maybe even Vesemir, a little bit, despite being the one to propose him. It’s hard to tell, really, as he’s only just met Vesemir and barely gotten to know him. But if there’s one thing Jaskier’s exceedingly good at, it’s defying expectations, so he’s determined to get the job and show them all what he’s made of. With that in mind, he falls asleep as well, the quiet hum of the dim lights lulling him to sleep.

He’s woken abruptly in the night by something cold and wet settling all around him, and Jaskier sits up quickly, squinting in the dim light as the sounds of water lapping at the walls and cots fills the room. His hands splash in it as he gets to his feet, bracing his hands against the ceiling while the water rises around him. The others have all awoken by now, confused shouts joining the ruckus of the rising water, until Valdo’s voice cuts through it all.

“Everyone just calm down. Stay calm!” He says commandingly and the din lowers in volume a bit as their attention is turned to him. Jaskier only lends him half of his attention as he looks around the room, formulating an escape. Valdo seems to be doing the same, but then points towards the wet room, “Loo snorkels! Loo snorkels!”

Jaskier turns back with a confused expression, “ _Loo_ snorkels?”

“Showerheads!” Geralt shouts and Jaskier’s head whips to the side to look at him, his confusion ratcheting higher.

“Showerheads?”

“He’s right, go! Fucking go!” Valdo gestures for them to follow him as he swims through the water to the bathroom, grabbing onto a showerhead and ripping it from the pipes.

Jaskier looks between them and the door, his brows furrowed as he fights the panic building in his chest that’s now submerged, “Hey, hang on, what’s wrong with the fucking door?” He then tilts his head back and takes a few fast, deep breaths to expand his lungs before sucking in a large lungful of air, the water reaching the ceiling.

He opens his eyes under the water, his vision blurred heavily, and he can’t quite make out what they’re doing in the wet room anymore so he decides to take matters into his own hands, swimming to the door with his heart beating heavily in his chest. He doesn’t have much time, the human body can only survive for, at most, five minutes without air, and the added pressure of the water and exertion of swimming will reduce that number significantly.

Jaskier reaches the door and grabs the handle, bracing one foot against the wall beside it as he tugs with a few muffled grunts, some of his precious air escaping in small streams of bubbles through his nose. It’s clear that the weight of the water is holding the door closed. His heartbeat is coming faster now, and he turns to look behind him at the wetroom area where the others are huddled around the toilets. Their shadows are all he can make out through the water.

He tries a few more futile tugs before giving up and turning around, pushing off of the door to conserve some energy as he glides through the water towards the wetroom. As he approaches, he can make out the tubes of the showerheads in the hands of the others, the other ends running into the toilets. He’s not sure what good that’ll do so he keeps swimming, remembering the mirror that is on the far wall behind the showers.

Jaskier swims right up to it and presses his hand against it, moving his face close to peer at the reflection. To his immense relief, the fingertips of his reflection are not touching his own, which means the mirror isn’t just a mirror, it’s two-way glass. Jaskier’s jaw tightens as he reaches down and grabs onto one of the towel hooks below the mirror, bracing his feet against the wall and pulling back his fist. He then pushes through the water as hard as he can so that his fist collides with the mirror, the entire thing shuddering out from the impact. He punches it again in the same spot, and tiny stress fractures appear. His vision is starting to fade at the edges and he feels light-headed but he needs to do this, or else who knows when they’ll be able to escape?

Jaskier punches it again and the fractures spiderweb into large cracks. One more good hit will do it. His heart hammers behind his sternum as he rears back, driving his fist forward with the last of his strength.

The mirror shatters and water pours out of the barracks into the hidden observational room behind it, taking Jaskier with it on the tidal wave. He gasps in coughing breaths as he breaches the surface and slides into the corner of the room, his new air being forced out of his lungs again as the others collide with him and force him back against the wall.

They’re all coughing and hacking up water, looking like drowned rats, when the click of heels grabs their attention, pulling their gazes up to Merlin.

“Congratulations on completing your first task,” she says, twisting a pen in her fingers as her clipboard rests in her opposite arm, “Valdo, Geralt, well done. For those of you who are still confused, if you can get a breathing tube around the U-bend of a toilet, you’ve got an unlimited air supply2. Simple physics, worth remembering.”

Jaskier pulls himself upright into a seated position and hooks his arms around his knees, still panting as his racing heart slowly calms itself. 

“Jaskier,” Merlin says and his eyes shoot up to her, “well done for spotting that was a two-way mirror.”

“He’s probably seen enough of them,” Valdo chokes out and there’s a weak chuckle from the group.

“Yeah, you can all wipe those smirks off your faces,” Merlin says sternly to them, gesturing with her pen, “Because as far as I’m concerned, every single one of you has failed. You _all_ forgot the most important thing. Teamwork.” She then points with her pen into the room and they tilt their heads back to try and see over the edge of the broken mirror.

Slowly, the trainees rise to their feet and make their way closer, gasps of shock and dismay rippling through them at the sight of Marilka’s motionless body on the floor, half hidden by her cot. Jaskier’s eyes widen and he feels stricken, his shoulders hunching slightly while they watch two men enter the room and retrieve her body bag from the locker.

“So much for classic army technique,” Jaskier says a bit faintly to Geralt.

“Training begins tomorrow,” Merlin says, her voice filtering through the haze of disbelief and grief in Jaskier’s mind, “which I will have nothing to do with. Watching people train is boring. When you see me, it means there’s a test. Your real dormitory is across the hall, get some sleep.” With that, she leaves, and they silently file out after her. Jaskier lingers, for just a moment, glancing back at Marilka’s body once again as the men unzip the bag and lift her corpse into it. He quickly hurries out, the door shutting behind him.

* * *

[Poviss - BGK Bank]

The sun shines brightly in Poviss as a tall, pale woman approaches the GBK bank. She wears a thick fur coat, velvet gloves, and carries a large, expensive handbag as she pulls open the doors to the bank and steps inside, taking a quick, but not alarming path through to the ladies toilets on the sixth floor. She locks herself into one of the stalls, glancing up at an air vent above it, before shedding her coat and removing her wig, pulling off a latex mask. 

Vesemir rubs the latex glue out of his mustache, swearing to himself that he’ll shave it this time even though he knows that he won’t, and straightens his black sweater before removing a utility belt from the handbag and buckling it around his hips. He then steps onto the toilet, being careful not to apply too much weight in any one spot, and reaches up to pull the cover of the vent down. Dust wafts down from it and he coughs slightly, slipping his thick glasses on so that he can see the schematics of the building.

“ _That’s the one_ ,” Merlin’s voice is in his ear from the tiny earpiece. The blueprints in the glasses highlights a path that must be the air vent, “ _The vault is two floors up, on the north side of the building_.”

“Roger,” Vesemir grunts as he hauls himself up into the ventilation shaft, the metal a bit of a tight squeeze for his broad shoulders but he’s able to extend his arms ahead of him and army crawl along. He’s not sure how long, chronologically, he crawls but he eventually reaches another vent and pops it out, dropping out of the shaft headfirst and rolling to absorb the impact as he lands on his shoulder. 

He then goes to the window and opens it, pulling a purple tube from his belt and squeezing the resin inside it onto his hands. He warms it up between his palms and then climbs out the window, the resin sticking his hands to the masonry with a strong enough bond that he won’t fall. Using this, Vesemir scales up the side of the building to the eighth floor.

“ _The security corridor is unmanned until eight fifteen A.M., but the laser field will be active_ ,” Merlin informs him, “ _Your access point will be three point two meters from the end_.”

He grunts in understanding as he reaches another window, slipping into the hall beyond it and pausing to look at the laser grid that spans the entire hallway. “I’m getting too old for this,” he sighs and then starts forward, ducking, twisting, diving, and slithering through the lasers in an impressive display of spritely physique until he reaches the point Merlin notified him of. 

Vesemir pulls a gadget from his belt and places it on the floor, extending it out. It looks like an oversized geometry compass, a laser attached where the pencil would ordinarily go. Vesemir activates it and then slowly rotates the compass so it cuts a hole in the floor large enough for him to fit through, mounting a hook in the floor next to it and then attaching a line from his belt to it.

He drops down into the server room below, quickly going to a computer and typing on it to try and find the necessary information. After four minutes of fruitless searching, he swears, “Fuck. Merlin, you said five minutes, correct?”

“ _That is correct, sir._ ”

“I can’t find the data.”

“ _I beg your pardon?_ ”

“You heard me. It’s not on these servers, or if it is, it’s buried so deep that it would take hours to find it.”

The communications device crackles as Merlin sighs, “ _Get out of there then, Galahad. We’ll figure out a new plan._ ”

Vesemir, already heading back towards the hole in the ceiling, grins, “I think I already have.”

* * *

The balloon in his hand squeaks as he twists it into a passable lion, handing it to one of the delighted children in front of him, and then turns to the other as he asks in Elder, “What animal would you like?”

The elven child claps her hands and bounces on the balls of her expensive shoes, “A penguin!”

“Penguin! My favorite,” Vesemir is dressed in a clown costume, his face heavily made up to be unidentifiable as he pulls out another balloon from his belt, blowing it up using a little pump.

“Lion is _my_ favorite,” the other child crows, waving the balloon animal around, “Nanny, look!”

Their nanny nods absently, an unhappy frown pulling on her pretty face as she stares at the visible handle of Vesemir’s gun in the back of his pants.

“Shall we show Daddy?” He asks the boy and points to a flower on his lapel, fully aware that the live feed is going straight to the computer of the bank director, “Hold it up to my little camera, he can see it.”

The children giggle and the girl shakes her head, “That’s not a camera, silly!”

In his ear, Vesemir can hear the heavy breathing of the director as his fingers tap across the keyboard and a moment later he cries out, “ _I’ve got it! I’ve got it. Okay, I’m sending it now to the file drop you gave me. And then you will leave?_ ”

Vesemir glances at his watch, pleased to see it flash a moment later as the files are received, before turning back to the children with a calm smile and starting to twist the balloon into the requested animal, “Yep, just finishing a penguin.”

With a few more twists, he hands a vaguely amorphous blob, that very well _could_ be a penguin, to the girl and then straightens up. “I have to go now, but it was lovely to meet you!” Both children cry out in displeasure but no one stops him as Vesemir leaves, the nanny quietly sighing in relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. King Medell was the 7th King of Temeria. return to text  
> 2\. Unlimited air supply does not equal unlimited oxygen supply. While the science is solid, please do not attempt this at home. return to text


	6. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Referenced Past Misogyny

The sky is shining clear over the enormous grounds of the Kingsman HQ, and Merlin stands upon a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Below her are eleven stacked cages, the eleven remaining recruits standing at attention in front of them and dressed in their velvet jumpsuits. Nearby, an assault course is prepped for the trainees, eleven heavy bags made up with unloaded rifles leaning against them.

“As some of you learned last night, teamwork is paramount at Kingsman. But I need _all_ of you to learn that, so before you begin the assault course, you will each pick…”

Jaskier looks up at Merlin, remembering her words from the night before and wondering which part is the test. The assault course? The outdoors? The way he’s standing? Maybe it’s-

“A puppy.”

In the cages are eleven puppies, ranging from labradors to poodles to a little tiny thing that Jaskier assumes must be a bulldog due to its squashed face and tan fur.

“From here on in, wherever you go, your dog goes. You will care for it. You will train it. Your dog is your responsibility at all times. So, choose your puppy.”

The doors to the cages clatter open and the dogs begin barking as the trainees surge forward. Valdo gets his hands on the labrador while Téa and Véa each get the Collie and German Shepherd respectively. Jaskier panics a bit and grabs the bulldog and they all return to the line they’d been standing in, settling into parade rest with their leashed puppies in hand.

He glances over at Geralt, who stands beside him, and raises his eyebrows at the brown, curly furred dog at his feet. “A poodle?”

“What?” Geralt asks a bit defensively, “They’re gun dogs. Oldest working breed and easy to train.” He then looks at Jaskier’s dog in mild amusement, “A pug?”

Jaskier’s eyes widen as he looks down at his dog, “It’s a bulldog, innit?” He glances over to see Geralt shaking his head, “He’ll get bigger, though, won’t it?” Another pitying head shake. Jaskier sighs and his shoulders slump slightly, “ _Cock_.”

“Now that you all have your dogs, when I blow this whistle you’ll take the assault course,” Merlin announces, lifting a silver whistle, “The only rule is that you cannot hold your dog. This is a test of command, of willingness to work with your dog, and of compatibility. Did you make the right choice?” Jaskier glances down at the pug with a dismayed expression, he’s going to come in dead last with the tiny legs on this guy. Merlin then blows the whistle and they’re off.

He runs with his dog at his side over to the packs, putting on the bullet proof vest over his jumpsuit and then hauling on the twenty pound pack as he lifts his gun. The first thing you do in any assault course is load your weapon, so he reaches over his shoulder into the munitions pocket of the pack and is pleased to find the clip. With a snug _click_ , the clip snaps into place on the rifle and he hooks the strap over his head before starting to run the course.

It’s a bit tricky to take the obstacles with such a tiny dog. Jaskier has to coax it over each and every one, and it’s only the fact that all the dogs are untrained that he isn’t doing poorly. In fact, the pug seems perfectly receptive to his gentle instruction, and it’s with a smug smile that Jaskier passes Geralt, who is arguing with the stubborn poodle as it digs its heels in and refuses to jump a low wall.

His luck runs out, however, when he reaches the final stretch. A five kilometer run through the woods along a gravel path. It’s here that the pug decides it’s had enough and plops itself down on the ground, refusing to get up again. Jaskier huffs and tugs on the leash, not so hard as to hurt the pup but enough to be insistent. Still, the pug doesn’t get up and Jaskier is passed by everyone.

“Come on,” he groans at the dog, glancing up at the retreating backs of the other trainees, “Come on! I’m not coming last because of you.” The pug resists the pull of the leash with a tiny growl of its own and Jaskier snarls, aiming the gun at the puppy, “I will shoot you. Gods-damn you, I will fucking shoot you!”

The pup whines and looks up at him with its bulbous brown eyes and the muzzle of the gun wavers slightly. “Merlin said we’re not allowed to hold you,” Jaskier glances at the group again, now almost to the edge of the forest, “bollocks.” He thinks quickly before coming to a realization, he doesn’t suppose it’s technically _holding_ the pug if it’s in his vest? 

Jaskier scoops up the puppy and tucks it into the front of his vest, keeping his rifle tight against his stomach to stop the dog from slipping down further into the kevlar, and then taking off at a sprint to catch up with the others. The pug bounces on his chest, content as can be, and Jaskier makes up the lost distance quickly.

* * *

In the dining room, Vesemir and Arthur are eating lunch while discussing Vesemir’s recent findings with the GBK bank in Poviss, classical music playing quietly and a live feed of the recruits running the assault course playing on the mirror. Vesemir smiles slightly when Jaskier puts the dog in his shirt, and quickly hides his delight by wiping his mouth with his napkin.

“The name on the account is fake,” Vesemir says, lifting his glass of water and taking a sip, “entirely untraceable.”

“No surprise there, what else?”

Vesemir turns his attention from the screen to Arthur, “Multiple regular payments to the mercenaries, again, no surprise. But there were a lot of other, rather large recent payments to individuals. Prominent individuals.” At Arthur’s raised brows he continues, “scientists, doctors, academics, artists, authors, a few of them quite well known.”

“How bizarre.”

“That wasn’t even the most surprising discovery. _That_ would have to be the very large payment made to Professor Aldert Geert.”

“You mean _from_ Professor Geert,” Arthur corrects, “Ransom money.”

Vesemir shakes his head, “No, I don’t.”

* * *

They lose one of the boys whose name Jaskier never bothered to learn, he fell behind during the run due to asthma. Merlin was apologetic but unrelenting, and the boy left with his dog as a souvenir. His bed is stripped bare and the training crate at the end of it is empty and Jaskier finds it a bit uncomfortable to look at. That could have been him, had Merlin not agreed that tucking a dog into the front of your vest is, technically, not _holding_ it. She had congratulated him on his quick thinking and ingenuity, which had earned him glares from Valdo and the Zerrikanians.

He’s asleep in bed now, though, with the pug curled up at his feet. He’s decided to name it Gregjamin the First, the Canine King of Kerack. It’s a rather long name, though, so he dubs the pug Greg for short and calls it a day. He and Greg are both interrupted from slumber as a wave of something cold and wet hits him in the face, and Jaskier shoots up gasping and spluttering and soaked to the bone as his brain briefly panics and thinks the room’s filling up again.

But no, it’s just Valdo holding a bucket and laughing cruelly with Téa and Véa, and Jaskier’s blind panic turns to embarrassed rage as he gets to his feet and starts to stalk forward.

“Come on, then!” He shouts, getting ready to hit Valdo.

Valdo smirks and taunts him, “Oh, what’s wrong, can’t take a joke?” 

Geralt gets up and quickly grabs him, wrapping an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, “Jaskier, forget it. Seriously, you’ll get kicked out. It’s not worth it.”

“Maybe it’s worth it to me!” Jaskier snaps, struggling to free himself from Geralt’s strong grasp, “Maybe I don’t give a _fuck_ if I get kicked out!”

“Do it,” Valdo says smugly, “Come on, you pleb.”

“Valdo, _fuck off_ ,” Geralt snarls before lowering his voice, “maybe _I_ care,” his tone is quiet and soothing in Jaskier’s ear, “Maybe I want a bit of real competition here. If you’re gone: way too easy.”

All of Jaskier’s fight goes out of him and he sags back against Geralt’s chest, too upset to even appreciate the warmth of the skin-to-skin contact from their bare torsos. They’re nearly of a height, Geralt having only an inch or two on Jaskier, but their body types are very different. While both muscular and broad shouldered, Jaskier’s muscle is more lithe from running and swimming, while Geralt’s is more toned like a bodybuilder.

“Why are you being nice to me?” Jaskier mumbles, finding it easier to ask a vulnerable question like that when he isn’t facing Geralt.

“Because I’m a nice person,” Geralt says and Jaskier can hear the smile in his voice, “And because, ten years ago, I’d have been the one getting ostracized.” Jaskier turns around to give him a blank look, “Made to feel different, just for having a vagina.”

Jaskier blinks, not sure if he should be offended or not, “Fuck off!”

“I didn’t mean you have a vagina, that came out wrong,” Geralt’s cheeks turn a lovely pink and Jaskier feels his own face heating up so he steps out of Geralt’s arms, resisting the urge to glance at the man’s chest.

“Nah, it’s good. I haven’t, but like, if I did it wouldn’t be a big deal to you, I guess,” Jaskier wants to hit himself over the head with a chair, _just stop talking_ , “But I don’t. Cock and balls since birth and all that.” _For fucks sake, Jaskier, shut the fuck up!_

Geralt laughs though, and settles down on the edge of his bed so Jaskier sits down opposite him, finding a dry spot atop his own sheets and pulling his legs up to sit criss cross. Greg immediately crawls into his lap and falls asleep as Jaskier starts to pet him. 

“You don’t have to tip-toe around it,” Geralt smiles wryly at him, “But I appreciate the effort to not hurt my feelings or anything.”

Jaskier turns a brighter red and ducks his head in embarrassment, “Sorry, mate.”

“It’s alright.”

He nods and keeps his eyes resolutely on Greg until a thought comes to mind, “Can I ask you something? I guess it’s kinda personal, though, so you don’t gotta answer of course.” Geralt raises an eyebrow at him and nods slightly. “You… er, you… I mean, the way you said that earlier. Do you still…?”

“Have a vagina?”

Jaskier wants to melt through the floor in mortification. He shouldn’t be asking things like this, why can’t he ever keep his big fat mouth shut? The only time he can is if he’s keeping secrets, but he’s a nosy fucker and always has been.

“That _is_ a bit personal,” Geralt muses and Jaskier immediately opens his mouth to apologize when Geralt continues talking, “but I guess in the spirit of getting to know each other, I do. And before you ask why haven’t I had bottom surgery when I’ve had top, that one is none of your business.”

“I wasn’t gonna ask that,” Jaskier mutters, like a liar.

Geralt chuckles, “You were, but it’s okay.”

“I… I’m sorry, you know, if I-”

“Stop,” he holds up a hand to Jaskier, “It’s okay, I’ve already said it’s okay, and if you keep apologizing for expressing an interest in me I’m going to kick your arse.”

Jaskier blinks in shock before snorting unattractively, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, “Yeah, alright, that’s fair.”

“We should get back to bed now,” Geralt glances at Jaskier’s soaked cot sympathetically, “If the cots were big enough, I’d offer for you to sleep in mine.”

“Thanks for that, but I’ll be alright on the floor,” he sets Greg aside and gets up as he grabs his pillow, flipping it over to the dry side and tossing it on the ground between their beds, “Ain’t the first time I’ve slept there.”

Geralt’s expression twists into an almost pained one at the admission but he nods and gets back under his covers as Jaskier stretches out on the cold concrete floor. “Goodnight, Jaskier.”

“Goodnight, Geralt.”

* * *

** [Oxenfurt University] **

Vesemir has been waiting, very patiently might he add, in the lecture hall belonging to Professor Aldert Geert for the past hour. The professor was supposed to have arrived forty minutes ago, and in his boredom, Vesemir has both studied and corrected the equations on the chalkboard heralding in the end of the world and predicting the fall of mankind. Oxenfurt is a beautiful university, and he’d much rather be walking the grounds than standing in this dusty room. Seriously, when was the last time the professor allowed a cleaning staff in here?

He checks his watch again and sighs softly, resigning himself to settling in to wait another hour, when the door to the hall opens and the professor himself steps into the room, carrying a briefcase and muttering to himself. Vesemir turns around and puts his hands in his pockets, smiling pleasantly at the professor when the man spots him.

“Hello,” Professor Geert says, sounding a bit confused, “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” Vesemir replies jovially, “I have a question, about anthropogenic force.”

“Oh… really?” The professor chuckles and moves a bit faster in his approach, eased by the invitation of academic discussion, “It’s actually quite fascinating, really.”

The moment the man is close enough, Vesemir’s hand shoots out and grabs him by the ear. He lifts just a little, just enough for it to hurt but not enough to tear, and lowers his voice sternly, “My colleague died trying to rescue you, and I’m sure you saw how well trained he was. So I suggest you tell me who kidnapped you and why they let you go.”

He lifts a bit more on the professor’s ear and the man’s hands fly to his forearm, briefcase dropping to the ground. Professor Geert grunts in pain but stammers out, “I-I have no idea what you’re talking ab-”

Vesemir slaps him and the professor cries out, his voice rising in pitch, “I’m not supposed to say it, but it was… was-” he starts screaming and Vesemir grimaces.

“Oh, for the gods’ sake, I barely touched you,” he looks disappointed in the professor as the man hollers as though he’s been shot, “Oh, man up-”

 _Splat!_ Professor Geert’s head explodes with a concussive blast, knocking Vesemir’s hand away and coating his face with something hot and wet. He stumbles back against the desk, his ears ringing and his vision blurring from the toxins in whatever got on his skin, and he peers through his sullied glasses to see two men enter the room and raise their guns at him.

He quickly pulls out a gold-plated lighter and flips it open, setting it on the desk and running for the window. The lighter beeps with a red light where the flame would be before detonating, and the explosion sends Vesemir through the window into the courtyard below with a burst of flame. 

He hits the ground hard. The wind getting knocked out of his already aching lungs and he wheezes for breath as the world spins around him and everything goes dark.

* * *

** [Unknown Location] **

On a desk that has a screen implanted within it’s surface, is a picture of Professor Aldert Geert, a status report scrolling along beside it and beneath the photo it says: SECURITY BREACH, IMPLANT ACTIVATED. A balled fist slams down on the screen beside the picture as Gaunter O’Dimm leans back in his chair with a petulant scowl.

“Fuck that guy! Whoever he is… I’m gonna-” he growls and flexes his fingers irritably before lowering his voice and lacing his fingers together, “He made me kill Professor Geert. I gods-damned _loved_ Professor Geert.”

“Well, the good news is, we know the emergency and surveillance system works,” Fringilla says, tapping on the screen to input commands.

“You know what’s not good news?” Gaunter leans forward and rests his elbow on the table, “‘ _my colleague died’_!” He imitates Vesemir’s accent before huffing, “That’s what he said! This is an organization and they’re all over us. Whoever you spoke to-”

“I _told_ you,” Fringilla interrupts, “I made contact with the RSS, Lodge, Witchers, _and_ Cintra. They all insist he wasn’t one of theirs.”

“ _Cintra_ ,” Gaunter muses as he leans back again, “So freaky how there’s no recognizable name for Calanthe’s secret service. Now, _that’s_ what you call a secret, right?” He props his feet up on the table, crossing his ankles and looking at his brightly colored shoes, “You know what? Fuck it. We need to speed things up. Bring the product release forward.”

“We’re only halfway into production, and speeding it will cost a fortune.”

“Do I look like I give a fuck?” Gaunter reaches for his coffee mug, “Just get it done.”

* * *

** [Kingsman HQ - Medbay] **

“His MRI shows no signs of concussion,” Merlin is saying, standing at the bedside of an unconscious Vesemir. He has a ventilator set up and strapped to his jaw, the tube parting his lips where it goes down his esophagus, “No direct brain trauma at all.”

“How much longer can he be out?” Arthur asks apathetically, hands in his pockets as he stands on the opposite side of the bed.

“That’s the million-dollar question. We don’t know what he was exposed to in there.”

“What about Vesemir’s footage? It didn’t stream to his home terminal.”

“Encrypted,” Merlin turns her violet gaze from the prone man to Arthur, “and uncrackable.” Behind them, the door to the medbay opens and Jaskier quietly walks in, Greg on leash and following him. “If or when he comes around, you might want to have a word about sharing his password.”

“Is he gonna be alright?” Jaskier asks nervously, looking from Vesemir to the two men. It’s been two months since he’s been in training, and he’s starting to become rather friendly with Vesemir.

“We need to have patience, Jaskier, but there’s hope, okay?” Merlin says in an unusually gentle tone, “If I were you, I’d concentrate on your training. Make it through the tests. Make him proud.” She nods her head at Vesemir and Jaskier looks at her with pained eyes but nods in understanding.

He turns his attention back to Vesemir for a few moments longer before taking a deep breath and nodding again, more firmly this time. He’s not just doing this for himself, he’s doing this for Vesemir.

* * *

It’s dark, the trees providing an extra layer of cover as they hide amongst the brush in black and green clothing with paint across their faces and helmets on their heads. The trainees are equipped with long range rifles and are keeping their voices low, peering through the bushes into the open space of the fields.

“New target, 800 meters,” Valdo says quietly from beside him and Jaskier glances over to nod in acknowledgement before peering through the scope of his rifle, the night vision allowing him to search and find the other trainee creeping around with a balloon above her head. He thinks it might be Téa, based on the way she’s walking, but it’s difficult to tell with all the tac-gear they’re all wearing. He’s had a few months to get to know everyone, and still, Geralt is his only friend. 

They’re doing a training exercise tonight. Not a test, since Merlin isn’t present, thank the gods. He’s not sure when their next test will be, but the time since getting their dogs has been spent studying languages, combat, mathematics, chemistry… really just anything and everything. “A Kingsman is prepared for anything,” Arthur had told them, and Jaskier has taken it to heart.

Greg lays at his side and whimpers softly so he reaches out and shushes the dog with a gentle tap to his nose, the wordless signal he’s trained Greg to respond to for silence. The other dogs are panting, but also are remaining quiet, for if they make too loud a sound it’ll give away the trainee’s position. There’s four on his team and four on the opposite, and Geralt is unfortunately on the opposite. Which means Jaskier has to put up with Valdo alone.

“You know, it’s unbelievable. You’re still here,” Valdo sneers softly. They’ve lost four recruits in total since starting their training, and Jaskier has refused to be anywhere close to the bottom since deciding he’d work for this for Vesemir as well. “Lingering like some big, steaming shit that just won’t flush.”

“Roger that, target identified,” Jaskier says when he has Téa, he thinks, firmly in his sights before quipping, “And how about you shut the fuck up?”

“Positive discrimination, that’s what it is. It’s like those fucking state-school kids who get into Oxenfurt on ‘C’ grades because their mum is a one-legged lesbian.”

“You don’t know fuck all about my grades.”

“Oh, forgive me, I’m sure you’re _highly_ educated,” Valdo rolls his eyes, “fire when ready.”

Jaskier fires immediately and the balloon over Téa’s head pops loudly, making her shriek in surprise and flinch away. “How’s that for positive discrimination?”

Valdo scowls and just slaps the safety back on, lifting his head from his rifle.

* * *

**[Unknown Location]**

Across a glittering lake, the moonlight shining upon the dark surface, is a large and beautiful manor. Its modern architecture makes it stand out from the surrounding area, and light streams from all of its glowing windows across an emerald green lawn and pale gray driveway. One of the floor to ceiling windows has movement through it, several people gathered in the dining room of the manor as they wine and dine.

“I want to thank you both for listening,” Gaunter O’Dimm says from the head of the table, sipping his glass of wine and smiling pleasantly. Seated to his right is the Prime Minister of Verden, Kistrin Ervyll, and to his left is Queen Eithné of Brokilon, a vassal state of Verden and its royalty a figurehead for the people. “I really, really appreciate you traveling all this way, your royal highness. And you, too, Mister Prime Minister.”

“I think this is…” PM Kistrin starts with a soft smile before it grows into one of awe, “Quite brilliant. It’s absolutely brilliant.” Gaunter chuckles and rubs his hand over his mouth in a display of faux humility.

Queen Eithné is frowning as she looks at Gaunter, “You are completely crazy.” 

Gaunter’s smile drops immediately.

Eithné turns to Kistrin and speaks in Brokiloéne1, “ _And as for you, Prime Minister. I’m speechless you’d even consider this._ ”

She continues to speak angrily in her uncommon tongue as she stands up and Fringilla moves forward, placing her hands upon the Queen’s shoulders and pushing her down into her chair again. Gaunter stands as well and wraps his fingers around her wrist, leaning into her space.

“Sorry, your royal highness, but you’ve got a big role to play,” he says seriously as he looms over her, “in getting the Dryad population back on track. You’re popular, inspirational, and you have the power to galvanize the people. Now, whether you’re on board or not,” he straightens up a bit with a frown, “I’m going to have to insist on getting you somewhere I can ensure your safety.” He then turns to look at Kistrin, raising an eyebrow, “How about you, Prime Minister, you in or out?”

Kistrin’s eyes widen slightly at making this decision unilaterally but then he straightens his back, “Well, I think it’s about time a politician did something that, uh… actually made a difference.”

“Too true,” Gaunter points at him with an appreciative look before glancing at Fringilla, “Take her away.”

Queen Eithné glares at both Gaunter and Kistrin, but gets up without a fight and follows Fringilla out of the room, cursing out the Prime Minister in Brokiléone the entire way. They watch her leave before Gaunter claps his hands together, “Drink?”

Kistrin grins and claps as well, “Why not?”

Outside the dining room they hear the Queen call for the guards and Gaunter makes a sound of sympathy, “Don’t worry, no harm will come to the Queen.”

The Prime Minister shifts in his seat before leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin, “Well… I’m a republican anyway, so it… it really doesn’t matter.” He chuckles and Gaunter joins in, almost in disbelief.

“Release the Queen!” one of the guards says, pulling out a gun as he and the other guard advance on Fringilla. Her jaw clenches and she reaches behind her, unzipping her tight black skirt and dropping it on the floor to give herself a larger range of motion. She then runs towards the guards, ducking as they start firing at her.

She slides across the ground, the blades of her prosthetics peeling up curls of wood from the floor. The guards turn to continue shooting and she jumps to her feet, ducking and weaving to be a smaller target. Fringilla then does a large, wheeled kick and one of the blades extends, slicing through the arm of a guard and amputating his hand. He cries out and turns away, grabbing the bleeding stump with his other hand.

Fringilla leaps into the air and brings one blade down upon the other guard. It cuts through his arm at the shoulder and he drops to one knee as the limb hits the floor. She then twists and kicks out again in another arc, the tip of a blade slitting the throat of the first guard. The remaining guard grabs his gun again with his other hand, but Fringilla kicks upwards and cuts that hand off too before jabbing her blade out in a side kick. It goes straight through the guard’s open mouth and emerges from the back of his skull.

Eithné covers her mouth as she presses herself against the wall, her dark skin ashy and pale as her uneven breathing rattles in her throat. Who on earth are these people?

A short time later, the Prime Minister is seated in what looks like a reclined dental chair, his head tilted to the side as a laser cauterizes a small incision behind his ear. It leaves a thin, faint scar and he looks up once the procedure is complete, looking between Fringilla and Gaunter on either side of him.

“Okay, you’re done,” Fringilla smiles at him, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, “Not so bad, right?”

He smiles back at them, “Hardly felt a thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Dryad dialect, it derives from elder. After Verden acquired Brokilon as a vassal state, the language became the official one of Verden. return to text


	7. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I broke my leg last Friday and have been having an Entire Time of It lately, this was drafted but I forgot to post yesterday. Sorry!

Jaskier had thought the training wouldn’t be too difficult. After all, he was in the Temerian Marines for a time. How wrong he was. He’s been run ragged, between the academic and practical training, not to mention caring for Greg and standing up to Valdo constantly. He wants to be angry, and he was for a time, about the way he’s treated and looked down upon again and again just for being from Lettenhove, just for not having a formal education, just for being a _pleb_. But now, he’s just tired.

Cheers and laughter fill the dormitory and Jaskier determinedly ignores it, seated on his bed and playing with Greg as everyone else is gathered across the room and playing a game of charades. He wasn’t invited to play, and even if he was he wouldn’t be able to do half of the prompts anyway. They’re all posh, froofroo things like poets and quotes from classic books and baroque musicians. How is he supposed to know all that? Give him prompts about cars, or pub trivia, or hell, even My Fair Lady.

Jaskier glances over when it’s Geralt’s turn to mime. Despite not being particularly sociable, Geralt is always invited to participate in activities with the others, and Jaskier suspects it’s due to his education at Kaer Morhen. He’s heard of the school, of course; Ivy League and in the Blue Mountains so skiing is prominent, but it’s not like Jaskier ever bothered trying to get into anything after secondary. Not even a state school.

Geralt holds up his hands and touches his thumbs together before separating his hands like he’s drawing back a curtain, he then holds up three fingers before sweeping his arms outwards in an all-encompassing gesture.

“A play! Three words! Whole thing!”

Jaskier frowns as he tries to figure out what the play might be as Geralt mimes sitting down and checking his watch, tapping his foot impatiently. Mary Poppins? Perhaps he’s pretending to imitate Step In Time, but no… that’s not three words. Time Traveler’s Wife? Jaskier thinks that’s a book, maybe a movie, but not a play. 

“Troilus et Cressida!” Véa shouts and Jaskier frowns deeper. What the fuck _is_ that? Dwarven?

“Waiting for Godot!” Valdo yells and Geralt points.

“Valdo’s got it.”

“How the _hell_ would that have been Troilus et Cressida?” Téa asks incredulously and everyone laughs while Jaskier looks away, feeling embarrassed and lonely. This is stupid, he shouldn’t feel _embarrassed_ for not knowing things like fucking _plays_. He’s never been to the theater, tickets were always too expensive, so how could he know what the hell Waiting for Godot is.

“If you glare at Greg any harder he’s going to burst into flames,” Geralt says from the end of his bed and Jaskier looks up in surprise before his expression hardens.

“What’re you doin’ over here? Wouldn’t you rather be playing charades and acting out fucking Descarte or-or Van Gogh or something?” Jaskier looks over at the others bitterly, watching them laugh and also feeling guilty that he’s being such an asshole.

Geralt sits down on the end of Jaskier’s cot, criss crossing his legs so they’re facing each other and shrugging, “Nah. That’s all boring. I only played to get them off my back about it, otherwise Valdo would have buggered me for ages.”

Jaskier grimaces and looks up at Geralt again, “Sorry, I’m not trying to be a dickhead.”

“It’s alright, you’re just feeling left out.”

“Yeah, like I’d want to be a part of _that_ ,” he scoffs and nods his head at the group where Valdo is miming a person.

Geralt frowns slightly, “Jaskier, it’s okay to want to be included. You don’t have to be by yourself all the time.” 

Jaskier avoids his gaze, feeling oddly vulnerable beneath it, and looks over to see Valdo scratching his ass and pretending to belch unbecomingly. He opens his mouth to reply when Téa shouts, “Jasper!”

“Bingo!” Valdo crows and meets Jaskier’s gaze with a mean grin. Jaskier scowls and holds eye contact until Valdo’s grin slips slightly and he looks away, giving him just a small feeling of victory that’s quickly washed away by the overwhelming wave of shame.

“That arse,” Geralt mutters darkly and Jaskier hums his agreement.

* * *

Their dogs are all seated obediently in a line at the base of the manor, canine necks craned and jaws open while pink tongues loll in the August heat. Above them, the eight recruits are scaling the side of the building, purple resin slathered on their hands to help them stick to the masonry.

Jaskier is above the others, leading the charge towards the roof as he has plenty of experience with climbing buildings, even without the advantage of the resin. It feels rubbery on his palms, like wearing several pairs of washing gloves, and he’s not a huge fan of it but he forges on. This might be a test, since Merlin stands below them with the dogs, her ever present clipboard in hand. What’s gotten tricky is how to tell when she’s actually testing them or not, as she’s started showing up sporadically during their training as well to lead instead of Arthur.

“Remember: relax to release, tense to hold,” she calls up to them, “The resin responds to your neurotransmitter chemicals.”

Far below him, Véa is struggling to get the hang of the resin, and Jaskier glances down just in time to see her lose her grip and fall to the ground, landing heavily on her back and wheezing. The dogs all run over and start sniffing and licking her, making her laugh breathlessly as she struggles to get her lungs back under her control.

“That’ll do for today,” Merlin says, looking down at the girl, “Véa, pack your bags. Everyone else, wash your hands and then straight to room nine.” She walks away and one-by-one the recruits descend, jumping down the last few feet and collecting their dogs to go inside. They all leave Véa on the ground, Geralt giving her a sympathetic glance, but when Jaskier goes to retrieve Greg, he extends a hand to her.

“No, leave me,” she shakes her head, still wheezing a bit, “Go wash your hands.”

“Don’t be dense,” he snorts and bends down, grabbing her hand and hauling her to her feet, “You can barely walk, I’ll get you to the dorm.” Véa tries to pull away but grimaces and places a hand against her lower back with a nod so Jaskier tucks his arm under her shoulder and lets her lean on him as he leads them to the dormitories.

“I’m sorry I was such a dick to you,” she murmurs after a while, “You didn’t deserve it.”

He hums and shakes his head, “No, I didn’t.”

“Then why are you helping me? I was a total arse.”

“You were,” he nods in agreement and opens the door to the dorm, “But, arse or not, you never leave a man behind.”

Véa looks at him for a long moment before nodding, leaning over and kissing his cheek gently, “Thank you, Jasper.”

“It’s _Jaskier_ , actually.”

“Is it?” She looks surprised and then guilty, “I guess I shouldn’t have taken Valdo at face value then. I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

He shrugs and helps her sit down on her bed, putting her dog in its training cage at the foot of it so it’s out of the way while she packs, “What’s happened, happened. Thanks though.”

“What for?”

“Not being an arse anymore,” he smiles at her before putting Greg in his own training crate and then leaving the dorm, hurrying for room nine.

When he gets there, everyone is already seated at seven desks, two silver handholds on the surface of each one. Jaskier’s cheeks turn pink from being the last to arrive and he quickly slips into the open desk beside Geralt, who gives him a small smile.

“I saw you helping Véa,” he murmurs and Jaskier looks over, “That was nice of you.”

His face heats up more and he grins with a shrug, ducking his head, “Yeah, well, I can be nice too, sometimes.”

Merlin steps into the room and any chatter ceases as she goes straight for a light switch on the wall, “Grab the metal handholds on your desks. First to let go goes home.”

Everyone grips their handles and anxiously glances around before Merlin flips the switch and their arms seize up, fingers squeezing tighter as their muscles spasm. Jaskier feels like his arms are on fire, his back arching as electricity surges through him. He tastes blood and figures he probably bit his tongue in surprise, and across the room one of the boys, Benji, jumps out of his seat with a shout as he releases the handles.

Merlin points to the door and Benji hangs his head, leaving the room in shame. Jaskier manages to force himself to look over at Geralt, whose face is ghostly pale and hair damp from the sweat rolling down his temples. The agony is blinding and he wants it gone. He wants it to be over. It doesn’t matter anymore anyway, Benji already let go, who cares if he comes second to last?

“No, I’m done,” he forces out in a tight voice and he sees Geralt shake his head jerkily at him but Jaskier ignores him and tries to pull his hands off of the bars. His fingers won’t uncurl and his palms seem to be stuck to the metal. Jaskier blinks away the tears in his eyes to see the purple resin still on his palms. “ _Shit_ ,” he hisses, he forgot to wash his hands.

He tries again to remove his hands, doing his absolute best to relax his muscles but the electricity flowing through him won’t allow it. Around him, the others are letting go one at a time, first Karris, then Téa, then Besnik, all while he’s unable to pull his hands away and the intensity of the pain continues to increase.

It started out like an aggressive sense of pins and needles, like his arms and hands had fallen asleep for far too long and the blood was suddenly reintroduced to them. But now, it’s grown into an inferno, heat and flames licking up his arms. His shoulders scream and his back aches and his teeth are throbbing in his jaw from how tightly they’re clenched.

Geralt gasps and lets go of the handles, leaving just Jaskier and Valdo. Valdo’s teeth are gritted, sweat dripping off his chin and drenching the back of his suit, and Jaskier can’t hold back his howls as he starts to writhe in his seat, unable to remove his hands and suffering the consequences of it. He feels light headed and like the world is flipping and twisting around him and everything is dark. He suspects his eyes are closed but he can’t check right now, all that he can focus on is the agony coursing through him.

Valdo shouts and lets go, taking deep gasping breaths, and a moment later Jaskier slumps over on his desk. Merlin quickly flips the switch and Geralt rushes over, checking Jaskier for a pulse and sighing in relief as his fingers find it rabbiting in his neck. Valdo saunters over and grabs Jaskier’s wrist, yanking on his hand and scowling when it doesn’t come off the bar. He then carefully peels Jaskier’s fingers away and holds up the limp hand in angry triumph to show the purple resin on Jaskier’s palms.

“He _cheated_! Look!”

Merlin’s face is stern but there’s a glimmer of approval in her eyes, “He won. Take him to the medbay.”

Geralt peels Jaskier’s other hand from the bar and scoops him up, cradling the brunette close to his chest and leaving the room. As he turns down the hall, he hears Valdo mutter, “This better not get him out of the general knowledge test tomorrow.”

* * *

Jaskier wakes up to a pounding headache in his skull and a throbbing in his hands. He groans softly but peels his eyes open anyway, squinting against the harsh light of the medbay and looking around. He’s laid out on top of one of the cots, but other than the ache throughout his body he doesn’t seem to be injured. He’s also not alone here.

In the bed to his left, Vesemir is sitting upright and reading a book, his face shaved of the beard that had grown while he was out for the past few months and leaving behind just his bushy mustache. Vesemir glances over when he hears the rustling of the pillow beneath Jaskier’s head and a wry smile stretches across his lips, “It’s not usually this crowded in here.”

“When did you wake up? Are you okay?” Jaskier asks, biting back a groan as he pushes himself into a seated position. He’s going to be feeling that test for days.

“Excellent, thanks,” Vesemir says before pausing and correcting himself, “Actually… no, not so excellent. Worried, actually. About you. About throwing you into this situation. And about how you’ve been treated by the others. So: guilty. Rather unhappy and guilty, or is that ‘TMI’ as you young folk say?”

“I’ve never said ‘TMI’.”

“It means ‘too much information’.”

“I know… listen, don’t stress,” Jaskier shakes his head before immediately regretting that action as his neck twinges and his headache surges, “You gave me a chance, I’m just sorry I’m not gonna make it. Tomorrow, I’m out of here for having F.A.I.”

“What?”

“Fuck All Information,” he chuckles ruefully, “We’ve got the general knowledge test.” He sighs and looks away from Vesemir’s brown eyes and spots a tablet on the bedside table beside the agent, “Actually, can I borrow that?” He points to it, “I could revise a bit.”

Vesemir raises his eyebrows but nods and hands it over, “I’m impressed, that shows spirit. Determination.”

Jaskier scoffs, “It shows blind fucking optimism. That lot have had years of the best education money can buy and I’m pissing about on the Internet like I can catch up in a few hours.”

There’s a knock on the door and they both look up as Merlin enters, nodding her head in respect to Vesemir before her eyes land on Jaskier, “Oh… Jaskier. I needed to have a uh… private conversation and thought you’d still be asleep. I suppose I can come back tomorrow.”

“Nonsense,” Vesemir shakes his head, “Let him observe. He might learn a thing or two.”

Jaskier lowers the tablet as they both look at him and then Merlin nods, “As you wish. Take a look at this.” She taps something on her clipboard, which Jaskier suspects isn’t just a clipboard, and a screen on the wall illuminates, showing the video feed from Vesemir’s glasses during his interrogation of Professor Geert. They can hear Vesemir’s voice as he’s saying:

“ _Oh, for the god’s sake, I’ve barely touched you! Oh, man up-_ ” as he’s speaking and the Professor is screaming, they can see the veins in the Professor’s neck glow, becoming superheated, before Geert’s head explodes, splattering the camera with a blue substance.

“ _Fucking_ hell,” Jaskier flinches back, his eyes glued to the screen, “That is _rank_ , Vesemir. You blew up his head?” He looks over at Vesemir, who’s still looking at the television, “It’s a bit much, innit?”

“Actually,” Merlin grabs his attention, “The explosion was caused by an implant in his neck. Here, under the scar.” She zooms in on the video and they can see the pixelated visage of a faint pink scar beneath the professor’s ear.

Vesemir hums, “Did my hardware pick up the signal that triggered it?”

“Fortunately, yes. Unfortunately, the IP address it came from is registered to the O’Dimm Corporation.”

“That’s not much of a lead. He has millions of employees worldwide.”

Jaskier is a bit awed as he looks at the image of O’Dimm pulled up on screen, “That Gaunter O’Dimm is a _genius_.” Both Merlin and Vesemir look at him in confusion and Jaskier glances over, his smile slipping, “Did you not… see his announcement this morning?”

Merlin glances at Vesemir, “No.”

Jaskier then reaches over and takes Merlin’s clipboard, pulling up YouTube. He launches O’Dimm’s announcement from that morning, the screen changing to show the billionaire dressed in tech formal1 and stood in front of a purple background with his logo rotating on it.

“ _We each spend on average, $2,000 a year on cell phone and internet usage_ ,” he’s saying in the video and everyone turns their attention to it, “ _It gives me great pleasure to announce, those days are over. As of tomorrow, every man, woman, and child can claim a free SIM card compatible with any cell phone, any computer, and utilize my communications network for free._ ” The screen behind Gaunter changes to display an image of the SIM card, the copper board set in a blue piece of plastic emblazoned with the O’Dimm logo. His next words are punctuated by the screen posting them as well, “ _Free calls. Free Internet. For everyone. Forever."_

Applause and cheers indicates the end of the announcement and Gaunter walks off stage. Merlin snatches her clipboard back with a frown and Jaskier gives her a startled look before shrugging. Vesemir then reaches over and grabs the clipboard and Merlin makes a noise of annoyance, crossing her arms over her chest.

Vesemir zooms in on the announcement and they can just make out the blurry visage of a scar behind Gaunter’s assistant’s ear, “O’Dimm’s assistant has the same implant scar. I think Mr. O’Dimm and I should have a tête-á-tête.”

Merlin finally regains control of her clipboard and searches for something, finding a schedule for Gaunter O’Dimm and squinting at it slightly, “He’s having a gala dinner next week. I’ll get you an invitation. You need to be careful though. Since you’ve been out, hundreds of VIPs have gone missing.”

“There are more? Since Elton John?”

“Elton John disappeared?” Jaskier asks in surprise and both Merlin and Vesemir barely acknowledge him aside from a distracted:

“Shut up, Jaskier.”

“Two more, just recently,” Merlin confirms, “Stephen Hawking this weekend, and Lady G’Gar today.”

“Gaga,” Jaskier corrects and at the looks they give him he holds up his hands defensively, “Sorry.

Merlin turns back to Vesemir, “Anyway, all of them, no ransom notes, just like Professor Geert.”

Vesemir looks grimly at the television, “Then I suggest you make my alias somebody worth kidnapping.”

* * *

Vesemir is awoken that night by quiet muttering in the bed next to him and he feels a flash of irritation at not being allowed to sleep through the night. If he knew having Jaskier stay overnight for observation would have been this much trouble, he would have sent the boy to his dorms for bed and just had the doctors observe him via cameras. He stifles a sigh and opens his eyes, looking over to see Jaskier’s face softly illuminated by the tablet screen.

“Verden: Nastrog. Mahakam: Mount Carbon. Nilfgaard: City of Golden Towers. Aedirn: Vengerberg.”

  
“What the hell are you doing?” Vesemir asks wearily.

Jaskier glances up at him, “Trying to learn all the capitals. They always ask that shit in general knowledge tests.”

“Do it in your head. You know the trick?” At Jaskier’s head shake, Vesemir resigns himself to the conversation and sits up, “Make up something to link the words, the sillier the better. If it makes you laugh, you’ll always remember it. Name a country.”

“Okay uh… Nazair.”

“Capital city: Assengard. I think of an adulterous man with a lot of nasal hair who is running from his wife so he must guard his ass.”

Jaskier grins and Vesemir lays back down and closes his eyes, pleased to have eased some of the boy’s worries. There’s a few moments of silence before Jaskier suddenly bursts out laughing and Vesemir growls, “ _Jaskier_.”

“Sorry! Sorry, I just thought of a really funny one for Skellige2.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you what,” Vesemir sighs and rolls over, reaching into the drawer of his bedside table, “If you get some sleep now, I’ll give you my lucky pen to take the test with.” He pulls out a very fine fountain pen and tosses it to Jaskier, who picks it up and peers at it suspiciously.

“How lucky is it?”

“Very. Now go to sleep.”

Jaskier looks over at Vesemir, the corners of his lips twitched up into a small smile, and then sets the tablet and pen on his own side table as he lays down and does as he’s told. Vesemir watches him with a secret smile of his own, inexplicable fondness for the boy tugging at his heart.

* * *

The sounds of pens scratching on paper fills the testing room as the recruits fill out their general knowledge exams. They only have an hour to complete it, and the time is already a quarter gone. Jaskier stares miserably down at his paper, all of this answers blank, and Greg looks up at him a bit sadly from where he’s sat at Jaskier’s feet. He sighs and slouches lower, propping his cheek on his fist and tapping the end of the pen against his opposite cheek as he gnaws on his lower lip. 

He feels the pen start to vibrate and blinks in surprise, pulling it away from his face to look peer at it. He tests that it still has ink or something by scribbling a line on his scratch paper, and to his amazement the pen starts to write on its own, dragging his hand along with it.

_Queen Calanthe failed her A-Levels. Didn’t stop her from saving Cintra. Everyone deserves a chance._

In the medbay, Vesemir has his phone on his leg and a sheet of paper spread out on his lap, an identical pen in his hand as he watches the screen. All he can see at the moment is a fish-eye view of Jaskier’s vibrant blue iris, but it pulls away a moment later to reveal his face as an amazed, grateful smile spreads across his lips. The camera rotates and Vesemir is able to read the first of the questions, scribbling the answer to it with his own pen on the page on his lap.

Jaskier watches in wonder as the pen answers question after question, moving his hand with it so it looks like he’s the one writing, and he has to stifle the relieved grin that threatens to split his face as the clock ticks and it seems like he’ll finish on time. Everyone else still finishes before him but with five minutes to spare, the pen answers the final question and Jaskier moves it to write _thanks_ on his scratch paper in his messy scrawl that Vesemir, he suspects, flawlessly copied.

* * *

Jaskier and Geralt are playing a game of keep away with their dogs in the courtyard when they find out their test results, and Jaskier is overjoyed to see that he passed with a solid 70%. Vesemir must have made some of the answers wrong on purpose to make it seem more like he was the one taking the exam. Not two minutes later, Valdo comes storming out of the manor, a furious snarl on his sharp face, “You’re a fucking cheat, Jasper. When I find out how you did it, you’re screwed.”

“Just because I didn’t go to private school, doesn’t mean-”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Valdo sneers, “I’m sure you’re _extremely_ well educated. What have you got? A vocational diploma in carjacking? A B-Tec in impregnating ugly girls around the back of a bus shelter?”

Jaskier’s back straightens and he clenches his fists as his teeth grind, suddenly livid and ready to beat the shit out of Valdo. Geralt gives him a look, though, and shakes his head in warning. Jaskier takes a deep breath and looks away, swallowing his fury. Not today. He’s so close, there’s only six recruits left, so not today.

At his lack of response, Valdo scoffs and spins on his heel, stomping back inside. Jaskier’s shoulders slump as he lets the tension melt out of him and bends down to pick Greg up, cuddling the fully-grown pug to his chest and burying his face in Greg’s back.

“You gotta stop letting him wind you up like that.”

Jaskier peers up at Geralt and sighs, “Easy for you to say, he doesn’t take the mickey out of you the same.”

Geralt nods in head in acquiescence as he crouches down to run his fingers through Roach’s curly fur, “Maybe not, but it’s still something you should get under control. Your temper is going to cost you, one of these days.”

Still feeling raw from Valdo’s insults, Jaskier scowls and snaps, “And what do _you_ know about me, huh? We’ve known each other for all of ten months. You don’t know _shit_ about me.”

Geralt looks pained but he doesn’t back down, “I know your real name is Julian. You say it in your sleep sometimes. I know you grew up in Lettenhove, and you say it’s a really shit neighborhood, and maybe it is, but you still love it because it’s home to you. I know you hate your stepdad and resent your mum and miss your little sister. And I know you’re lonely, and that Valdo’s insults hurt more than you let on.

Jaskier doesn’t like this, he doesn’t like being laid bare this way. It makes him uncomfortably aware of everything that’s awful about himself, how he’s never going to be good enough for Kingsman but all he can do is just try his _fucking_ best. He’s not even doing it for himself anymore, he just keeps going because he doesn’t want to disappoint yet another person. He doesn’t want to let Vesemir down like he did his mum, like he did his sister. 

He doesn’t want to think about any of that, though, and in his discomforted rage, he lashes out, “Yeah? And you wanna know what I know about _you_ , Geralt? You’re a bull-headed fucking _prick_ who’s just as bad as Valdo, with your fancy education and old money and probably fuck ass big house back in fucking Kaedwen. You look at me with fucking pity. Boo hoo, poor fucking Jaskier, had a bad childhood and has a bad homelife. Sleeps on the floor sometimes and has done drugs and fucking _shit_ like that. You think I’m something that can be fucking _fixed_ , like I’m a gods-damned pet project to you, don’t you?”

Geralt’s eyes are wide with shock as Jaskier yells at him before his expression hardens, “You really think that about me?”

No, he doesn’t. But he’s spitting mad and he can’t stop himself, “Yeah, I fucking do.”

“Fuck you too, Jaskier,” Geralt snarls and stands up, “If life could give me one blessing, it would take you off my hands.” He then turns and leads Roach inside.

Jaskier is alone again, just like he wanted. It’s easier this way. 

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Tech formal is usually clean sneakers, jeans, some sort of graphic tee or sweater, and a blazer. return to text  
> 2\. A man with a skeleton key is asked if he can patrol the halls. He says, in a thick accent, "Kaer, I'll Trol de halls." (Kaer Trolde is the capital of Skellige). return to text


	8. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Nonconsensual Drug Use

**[Toussaint]**

Vesemir looks up at the large, beautiful mansion at the edge of the glistening lake, the clear moonlight illuminating the emerald grass and shining atop the dark surface of the water. The modern styling of the home makes it stand out from its surroundings, and light pours out of its enormous windows across the grounds. He walks up to the front door and knocks sharply, straightening his tuxedo jacket and glasses and looking around at the suspicious lack of cars.

The door opens and Gaunter O’Dimm grins at him, leaning against the doorframe, “Mr. Clambert, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s Clam- _behr_ ,” Vesemir corrects, pretending to absently be looking around, “And I’m awfully sorry, I seem to have my dates muddled up.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Gaunter shakes his head, practically beaming at him, “I cancelled the gala because of _you_. Anybody willing to donate that much deserves their own dinner. Come in, come in.”

Vesemir raises his eyebrows and tips his head in thanks as he steps into the mansion, “Thank you.”

Gaunter falls into step with Vesemir as he leads them towards the dining room, “Gotta admit, I was really intrigued to meet you. There aren’t many billionaires I don’t know.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“And, obviously, I had my people look into your affairs, and that’s some pretty old money you’re from. How’d your folks make it?”

“Property, mostly,” Vesemir watches as O’Dimm’s assistant walks by, “Property and the markets. Nothing questionable, if that’s your concern.”

“Ah, look, I’m just into finding out what caliber person you are,” O’Dimm smiles, “I’m sure you understand that.”

“I most certainly do.”

“Hope you’re hungry.”

“I’m famished.”

“Good, grab a seat,” he turns them into the large dining room, the long table set for two places at the nearest end, and O’Dimm sits in the end seat while Vesemir takes the side. Clinking footsteps approach and Vesemir turns his head to look.

A thin woman with dark skin and shorn hair is pushing a domed, gilded cart, her legs amputated just below the knee and her prosthetics made of metal, paralympic quality, running blades. The metal clinks along the wooden floor as she rolls the cart to their side, and Vesemir unfolds his napkin to spread it on his lap. The woman lifts the dome of the cart to reveal a spread of packaged McDonald’s foods, from burgers to nuggets to fries.

O’Dimm grins at the joke and watches Vesemir for his response. Vesemir looks at him with an unchanging expression as he says, completely serious, “I’ll have the Big Mac, please.”

“Great choice!” O’Dimm waves his hand towards the cart, “But nothing beats two cheeseburgers with secret sauce. Goes great with this ‘45 Beauclair.” He indicates the glass of red wine as he lifts it and takes an indulgent sip.

“A classic pairing,” Vesemir agrees, “And might I suggest Twinkies and a 1937 Château d’Pomerol for pudding?”

O’Dimm swallows his mouthful of wine with an amused smile, “I like it. So… you want to donate to my foundation. You are aware that I wound things down in that area, right?”

Vesemir looks down at the table as though in thought, “Climate change is a threat which affects us all, Mr. O’Dimm. And you’re one of the few powerful men that appears to share my concerns.” He shifts in his seat to find a more comfortable position as he raises his eyes again.

“No, I shut things down because I wasn’t _getting anywhere_ ,” O’Dimm shakes his head, waving his hands vaguely for emphasis, “Every bit of research kept pointing to the same thing.”

“That carbon emissions are a red herring and that we’re past the point of no return, no matter what remedial actions we take.”

“Oh,” he laughs in delight, “You know your shit!”

“Hm, yes I sometimes envy the blissful ignorance of those less well-versed in the… shit,” Vesemir pauses with a thoughtful expression before continuing, “As Professor Geert always said, ‘Humankind is the only virus cursed to live with the horrifying knowledge of its hosts fragile mortality.’”

O’Dimm suddenly looks pained, grief flooding his eyes as he places a hand atop his bowed head, “You know, not a lot of people knew about him.” He lifts his head again to look at Vesemir and points, “You like spy movies, Mr. Clambert?”

Vesemir hesitates and looks over his shoulder at the blade-footed woman, who has sat down after serving them their meals and is listening to their conversation. “Nowadays they’re a little serious for my taste. But the old ones…marvelous.” Vesemir smiles wryly, “Give me a far-fetched theatrical plot anyday.”

O’Dimm looks thrilled again, with a happy smile on his face, “The old Radovid movies! Oh, man! Oh,” he sighs wistfully, “when I was a kid, that was my dream job: gentleman spy.”

“I always felt the old Radovid films were only as good as the villain. As a child, I rather fancied a future as a colorful megalomaniac.”

O’Dimm is looking at him with a sobering expression as he says softly, “What a shame we both had to grow up.” They hold eye contact for a long few moments before the billionaire breaks into a small smile, with a huffed laugh, “bon apetít.” He raises his cheeseburger in a toast before taking a large bite.

Throughout the rest of dinner, they make pleasant conversation and Vesemir finds that the wine really is quite nice. For such an eccentric man, Gaunter O’Dimm has good taste in grapes. O’Dimm walks him to the door after they’ve concluded their meal, the perfect host in every regard, and sees him off with, “Gimme a little time to think about your proposal, okay? My people will get in touch with yours, it’s all good.”

“And thank you,” Vesemir turns to him, “for such a… Happy Meal.”

Gaunter chuckles and nods as he watches Vesemir walk down the front steps to the awaiting car, closing the large wooden door behind him. He then turns to Fringilla, who has entered the foyer with a raised eyebrow, “Well? Want me to follow him?”

“Nah,” Gaunter reaches his arm out to wrap it around Fringilla’s shoulders, turning her around and tucking her against his side, “I put a nano-tracker gel in the wine. We’ll know his every move for the next 24 hours. Finally find out who he works for.”

* * *

The following day, Vesemir is having lunch with Arthur in the dining room as they discuss his recent excursion to Gaunter O’Dimm’s home. The seasonal squash soup is delicious and the homemade french baguettes it’s served with are perfectly baked. Their butler enters the room and whisks away the empty crystal bowls when they finish and Vesemir sits back in his chair, sated.

“O’Dimm didn’t let me out of his sight,” he informs Arthur, “All I got was this, on the way in.”

He taps his glasses and the feed transmits to the ornate mirror screen, pulling up video footage of the night before when he looked at the assistant as she walked by. In her hand are some pamphlets and Vesemir zooms in on them until they can read the words emblazoned across the front.

“The Church of the Eternal Flame is a hate group based in Novigrad. The FBI have been monitoring them for years.”

“But you think O’Dimm is a supporter?” Arthur asks, lacing his fingers over his stomach.

“No evidence yet of a direct connection, but I’ll keep looking.”

“Oh, by the way, our ever growing list of missing persons now includes Dryad royalty,” Arthur raises a hand to the screen as a picture of a beautiful, dark skinned woman with ornately braided hair is brought up, “her royal majesty, Queen Eithné of Brokilon Forest.”

* * *

**[Unknown Location - Underground Bunker]**

“Just let me out…”

Queen Eithné’s voice floats through the empty stone hallway, the concrete floor a pleasant brown-red color and metal doors set into the sides of the hall. 

“...you psycho!” her voice raises to an enraged shout as she slams her hand against the door she’s behind, a small window unlatched and open so that Gaunter can talk through it with her.

“I _told_ you, you’re free to go anytime you want. As long as you agree to my conditions.”

“I _don’t_ agree,” Eithné snarls, “and I am never, _ever_ , going to agree!”

Gaunter scowls at her, “Tough shit,” and slides the window shut, locking it in place, “bitch.”

He turns around and walks down the hall, pointedly ignoring the shouts and pleas from behind the locked doors as he carries the tray of uneaten food he had tried to take to the Queen. 

“Let me out!”

“I want to speak to the Temerian consul!”

“I just want to go home!”

The news is playing on a television as he enters the console room, Fringilla leaning against the desk with her arms crossed as she watches it. She glances over as he enters and he shakes his head, disgruntled with the lack of cooperation of so many people, so she turns her attention back to the news anchor.

“.. _.the list of missing celebrities and dignitaries has continued to grow in recent weeks, and world leaders are coming under increasing pressure to provide answers._ ” 

It cuts to an interview with the Verden Prime Minister, his face a mask of concern as he speaks into the microphone, “ _We are doing_ everything _in our power to find Queen Eithné. You know, governments and security forces worldwide are working together to find the person behind these abductions._ ”

The news cuts away from the interview to footage of a large line outside of a tech store as the newswoman speaks again, “ _In other news, people all over the world continue to wait in line day and night to get their free SIM cards. This unprecedented giveaway by the philanthropist, Gaunter O’Dimm, has already seen over a billion cards distributed._ ”

Watching the same news report, across the world, are the Kingsman recruits. All settled around the small television in their dormitory with concerned expressions on their faces. They’re unusually silent, and Jaskier and Geralt exchange a glance of trepidation, before remembering that they’re angry with each other and quickly looking away.

* * *

30,000 feet in the air, the six remaining recruits are geared up in flight suits and helmets, all strapped into the hold of a small skydiving plane. Karris, Téa, Besnik, and Valdo are all quiet as they wait for instruction, but Geralt is gripping the straps of his harness. His eyes are closed tight and he’s tense as a drawn bowstring as he mutters to himself.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Jaskier’s heart twists and, despite still being upset with Geralt, or at least pretending to be, he decides to take pity on him and try to distract him with conversation, “What, don’t like heights?”

Geralt looks up, his eyes tight with barely concealed panic, “Yeah, it’s okay.” Valdo looks over from beside Geralt, tuning into the conversation. “I’ve done it before, which is probably why, come to think of it.”

“Hey,” Jaskier leans forward and grips Geralt’s knee firmly to anchor him, “It’s gonna be alright. You’re top of the class.” He grins and Geralt gives him a tight, appreciative smile.

The radios in their helmets fuzz as Merlin turns on her microphone and begins speaking, “ _Listen up. Your mission is to land in the target without the radar detecting you. If I read you on the radar, or you miss the target, you go home. Is that understood?_ ”

They all glance at each other nervously. The air is thinner up here and their suits have oxygen built into them for the purpose of the jump. Their parachutes are heavy on their backs and with the threat of a radar, which can reach as low as 2000 feet, the jump feels much more dangerous now. Jaskier rubs his hands together, his heart beating fast with anticipation. He’s never gone skydiving before, not even bungee jumping, but he _has_ done the free fall at the fair and it’s one of his favorite rides.

“ _Drop zone, 20 seconds_.”

Geralt looks at Jaskier almost desperately and he gives the larger man a reassuring smile as he nods his head towards the bay door, “we got to go.” 

They all get up. Two-by-two the trainees make their way to the bay door and hold onto cloth loops hanging from the ceiling. The door opens downwards, sliding under the body of the plane and leaving a large hole to jump through. Wind rushes through the compartment and the pressurized halo suits, embroidered with the sideways Kingsman K on the breast, flap in the gale.

“Jaskier, I really don’t think I can do this,” Geralt says faintly and Jaskier looks over to him, his brows furrowed with worry.

Valdo shoves past him irritably, “Of course you can’t. Head to the back and I’ll show you how, yeah?” Karris, Téa, and Bosnik follow Valdo, leaving Jaskier and Geralt standing at the back of the procession. The red light on the ceiling switches to the green for go with a buzz and they all start to run forward with whoops and hollers.

Just before Jaskier and Geralt would make the jump, Geralt reaches up to grab the ceiling with one hand and Jaskier’s arm with the other, “Jaskier, Jaskier, wait! Hang on!”

Jaskier turns to him and grabs his shoulders firmly, pulling him close so that their helmets are practically touching, “Geralt, just stop fucking about!” Geralt looks like he might cry, his face pale and his eyes watering, so Jaskier squeezes his broad shoulders, “Follow me, yeah?”

Geralt gives him the smallest of nods so Jaskier smiles and holds his hands up in a relaxed shrug as he falls backwards through the hole, dropping into freefall below the plane and praying that Geralt will follow him. He watches the back of the plane for a moment before rotating in the air, spreading his arms and legs out to catch the wind, and whooping joyfully as his stomach swoops.

“WOO HOO HOO HOO!” He shouts, the display on his helmet showing his altitude and the longitude of the earth, as well as where his target is. The numbers rapidly drop as he plummets through the sky, and he imagines that this is what a bird must feel like, completely weightless and without a care in the world. “Come on!”

Jaskier aligns his arms and legs into a line to drop faster, angling his body so that he’ll join the circle of skydivers below. He glances up to see that Geralt hasn’t joined yet so he says, “Geralt, it’s now or never!”

“Jump!”

Geralt gasps as he does what Jaskier commands, leaping out of the plane with his heart in his throat and diving towards the group. He keeps his hands back and his legs straight as he wobbles through the air, extending his limbs into a star to catch the updraft and slow down when he reaches the rest of the laughing and cheerful group.

“Good man, Geralt!” Jaskier cheers, “Glad you made it!”

The trainees are joyous as they do flips and twists in the sky, the air rushing past them with their ever-dropping altitude. Jaskier is beaming as he looks around at the others, maybe this has all been worth it. All the teasing and the exhaustion and waking up aching day-after-day. Hell, he’d even make friends with Valdo if it meant he could do this again. He never thought that someone like him could end up in a place like this with people like these. He wanted no one, and didn’t want anyone needing him, and yet… here they are.

“ _My, my, you’re all very cheerful_ ,” Merlin’s voice crackles through their radios. They must be on the radar now, “ _Did you really think it was going to be that straightforward? Any idiot can read a heads-up display. A Kingsman agent needs to be able to solve problems under pressure.”_

Jaskier and the others have fallen silent as they listen, the only accompanying sound to Merlin’s words being the whistling wind outside their helmets. They all glance at one another nervously.

“ _Like what to do when one of your group has no parachute.”_

“ _What_?” Geralt immediately begins to panic, having only just gotten used to the height of falling, “No parachute? Who!?”

“Shit!” Jaskier swears at the same time as the others begin to panic.

“Fuck!”

“Which one?”

“What do we do?”

The radios fuzz again as Merlin speaks, “ _I told you: aim for the target, come in under the radar. And I hope to not be scraping one of you up. But if I do have to, and you're inside the target, please know I’ll be very impressed_.”

“Fuck!”

“Oh, _shit!”_

“Everybody listen!” Jaskier says suddenly, having spent the last ten seconds thinking hard and very fast, “I’ve got a plan. Pair off! Grab the closest person to you.” Panting can be heard through the headsets at the trainees drift towards one another into groups of two.

“Besnik, come on!” Karris shouts and waves at the boy to move closer to him.

Besnik is gasping and whispers, “Oh, fuck!”

“Besnik!”

Their displays read 6,000 feet and Besnik shakes his head, “Oh, shit. I can’t!” Without another word, he reaches back and pulls his chute. The fabric billows out of his bag and he’s abruptly halted in his descent.

“Fuck!” Jaskier curses.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Besnik pants, looking down apologetically at the still freefalling trainees.

Jaskier feels a spark of irritation, “Besnik, you wanker!”

“Shit, we’re an odd number now!” Karris says.

Jaskier looks around and waves for them to move closer, “Quick, make a circle!”

“Fuck, he’s right!” Valdo swears, “Boys, let’s do it.”

As they plummet towards the ground, they angle themselves to drift closer. Reaching out, Jaskier grabs Geralt’s hand in his left and Téa’s in his right. Karris and Valdo close the circle and they all lay flat in the air to slow their descent as much as possible.

“We pull our cords one-by-one,” Jaskier instructs, “When we know who’s fucked, the person on their right grabs them.”

“Okay, Jaskier,” Geralt nods, his hand tight around Jaskier’s.

“ _Good plan, Jaskier,_ ” Merlin praises, “ _You have 30 seconds. Come on now, hurry._ ”

“Me first!” Karris shouts and pulls his cord, his parachute deploying. It yanks him out of the circle and he gasps and then laughs, “Oh, fuck! Yes!”

Geralt makes a noise of panic and Téa speaks, “Okay, me next.” She pulls her chute and it also deploys, “See you on the ground, boys.”

Jaskier, Geralt, and Valdo close the circle again and a low altitude warning flashes across their displays. “Now me,” Valdo says and releases Geralt’s hand to pull his cord. The chute zips out of the pack and he disappears above them.

“Fuck!” Jaskier shouts and then looks at Geralt who is panting and gasping, “Geralt! No matter what happens now, I’ve got you, alright?”

He looks down at the rapidly approaching ground, their helmets buzzing in warning as their altitude is at 2100 feet and dropping. “Okay, Jaskier!”

They grab onto each other’s wrists and Jaskier tries to ignore the alarms, “Yours first, okay?”

“Yep!”

He then hauls himself forward, tucking his legs under him so he can wrap them around Geralt’s thighs. Geralt curls around him and the beeping in their helmets becomes more insistent as they reach 1000 feet, dangerously low. Geralt has his eyes clamped shut and his teeth grit as he yells wordlessly through them. 

Jaskier grabs blindly for the back of Geralt’s chute, as they tumble through the air. He finds the cord and pulls as hard as he can. The parachute deploys. But it flaps as it tries to unfold to catch the air. They continue to drop lower and lower. The fabric billows out as wind rushes up into it, yanking them out of their sudden descent, and Jaskier’s grip on Geralt slips.

“ _Shit!_ ” Jaskier’s arms are around Geralt’s knees and he kicks uselessly at the air as Geralt yells in terror, “Geralt!” 

Geralt forces his eyes open and pushes down on the brake handles, both of them screaming as they rush towards the target on the grass.

They both grunt as they hit the ground, hard. Gasping for air, Geralt and Jaskier roll onto their backs, staring up at the sky and the four other trainees who are parachuting behind them. After a few moments, Jaskier barks out a hysterical laugh and then devolves into relieved giggling, Geralt joining him quickly.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Geralt gasps, reaching over and grabbing Jaskier’s hand in his own, “holy shit, Jask. We-we nearly died!”

“Merlin would of had to scrape the both of us up,” Jaskier laughs, lacing their fingers together as they lay in the target for a few moments longer.

“ _Get out of the fucking way, you idiots_ ,” Valdo’s snide voice over their radios breaks the moment, _“I’ve got to land and unless you want my boots in your stomachs you need to move_.”

They voice their agreement and get up, leaning heavily on each other as they make space for Valdo to land. He does, his feet hitting just inside the very edge of the target, and then they wait for the others to reach the ground. Téa and Karris both miss the target, but Besnik lands in the dead center.

Merlin comes out to debrief them, waiting until they’ve gathered their deployed chutes under their arms and removed their helmets. “Karris, Téa. You don’t land in the K, you’re not in the K. Besnik, you opened too soon. You were all over the radar. All three of you, pack your bags, go home.” The three of them nod, Téa glancing at the remaining recruits, before they silently make their way back towards the manor.

“Jaskier, Geralt, congratulations,” Merlin looks at them, “You set a new record. Opening at 300 feet, that’s pretty ballsy. Well done, for completing another task. Fall out.”

Jaskier looks at Geralt and then Valdo, the two of them following orders and starting back for the manor, but he isn’t ready for that yet. He’s got a question, and he’s angry, “Sorry, sir, but why the fuck did you choose me as the gimp? Am I the expendable candidate?”

Merlin narrows her eyes at him, “No, no, no, you don’t talk to me like that. You have a complaint, you come here and you whisper it in my ear.”

That’s a bit odd but fuck it, Jaskier is pissed so he marches right up to Merlin. He’s about to speak when Merlin leans in and says to him, “You need to take that chip off your shoulder.”

She then reaches behind him and pulls the cord to his parachute, the chute deploying and pulling him backwards off of his feet as it catches the wind. He looks up at her in shock from his position on the ground, and she levels a stern glare at him before walking off. 

* * *

After Jaskier has showered away the stresses of the day and changed into a clean jumpsuit, he decides it’s time to man up and talk to Geralt. He said some horrible things to his friend, and he needs to rectify that as soon as possible. Jaskier ruminates over his apology as he heads back to the dorm from the kitchens, having grabbed them a snack. Fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach after all.

He’s so deep in his thoughts that, upon entering the barracks, he doesn’t notice that Geralt is standing with his back to the door. When he glances up from the ground, Jaskier’s face turns bright red. Geralt is completely nude as he digs through his suitcase, and Jaskier is powerless to stop his eyes from raking over the broad expanse of creamy skin bared to the world. Strong, muscular shoulders, biceps to rival tree trunks, and an ass you can bounce a penny off of all assault Jaskier’s delicate sensibilities.

What happened to the days when he could flirt with anyone down at the pub? Talk his way into their beds? Now, he’s like a swooning maiden from one of those period films when a single ankle is exposed. Granted, he’s ogling Geralt’s perfect legs and ass, not just his ankles, which are very fine too.

The air seems thin and he feels like he’s overheating in his velvet jumpsuit as he watches Geralt step into a pair of black boxer briefs, the fabric sliding over toned calves and thick thighs. He’s certain that, had his mouth been open, a puddle of drool would have accumulated by now. So distracted is he by the almost sensual display, he doesn’t notice Geralt glance over his shoulder at him until there’s a pointed clearing of a throat.

Jaskier’s eyes snap up to Geralt’s, his face turning even darker red, “I-I-I uh,” Jaskier clears his own throat and spins around to give Geralt some privacy, “Sorry, I um- didn’t realize… fuck, is it hot in here? Did they crank up the temperature for our next test or something? And I mean… two in one day? That seems excessive. Haven’t done that since the, ah, the fucking... electric desks.”

“Jaskier, you can turn around again,” Geralt sounds amused and when Jaskier checks, for safety of course, he trusts Geralt, there’s a gorgeous blush of pink painted across Geralt’s pale cheeks, too.

“Right, yeah, right,” he nods and turns back around. Geralt’s fully clothed in his jumpsuit and spots the apples in Jaskier’s hands.

“One of those for me?”

“Huh?” Jaskier looks down at them and nods, a bit too enthusiastically, “Oh, fuck. Um, yeah it’s… yeah, it’s for you.” He walks closer and tosses one to the other boy, “You know for um… you know, thanks and all. For not letting me die. I know we were pretty pissed.”

Geralt looks affronted, “Jaskier, just because I was angry doesn’t mean I’d have let you _die_.”

“No, yeah, no, of course not,” Jaskier agrees quickly, “That’s not what I… fuck. What I meant was… what I mean to say is, I- I’m sorry.” He looks down at his apple and rubs it against the front of his suit to give himself something to focus on, “I shouldn’t have said the shit that I did. You’re not like Valdo, you’re a bazillion times more incredible than him and I know you don’t think of me as your pet project. You know me a good sight more than anyone else here and I shouldn’t have tried to say otherwise. So… I’m sorry.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything and Jaskier, in his nervousness, continues to ramble.

“I just… I miss you, you know? Which is fucking stupid, you haven’t _gone_ anywhere and I know that but… I mean we haven’t really talked in twelve days and I like talking to you, G. I like you. I mean, I don’t _like_ you, but I like you. Or, maybe I _like_ you? But only if you liked me back, but you might not and I sound like a fucking teenager saying shit like that so I’m gonna stop because the point is-”

His mindless rambling is stopped by Geralt’s hand being placed over his mouth, “Shut the fuck up, Jaskier,” he says fondly, “I forgive you. And I’m sorry, too. I was making you uncomfortable and I kept pushing you, which I shouldn’t have done.”

“Right,” Jaskier nods, his voice muffled by Geralt’s hand, “Right, yeah, good. It’s alright, no hard feelings.”

He smiles and moves his hand to Jaskier’s shoulder before running it down his arm to lightly hold Jaskier’s hand in his, “And I’m glad you _like_ me.” Geralt has turned a darker pink that Jaskier is sure he’s matching, “Because I-”

They’re interrupted by the door opening as Valdo and Merlin walk in. Jaskier and Geralt both yank their hands away, blushing furiously, and Valdo gives them an odd look as he walks over to stand next to them with Merlin trailing behind.

“At ease,” Merlin says, “Thought we were done for the day, did you? We’re not. You’re going to be dressing up tonight in your best clothes.”

Jaskier raises his hand, “I’ve only got what I came in.”

“I’ll authorize the bursar to give you some funds,” she nods in acknowledgement, “You can buy something along the way.”

“On the way to where?” Valdo asks.

“Kerack. Tissaia’s Nightclub to be exact,” she hands them each a photograph of a pretty blond woman. She looks posh, and at the bottom of the photo are the words _Lady Sabrina Glevissig_. 

“Who’s this?” Valdo holds up the photograph with an arched eyebrow.

Merlin tucks her clipboard under her arm so she can stick her hands in her pockets, “Your target. Your mission: use your NLP1 training to win over the individual in the photograph. And when I say ‘win over’, I do mean in the biblical sense.”

Jaskier smirks playfully and holds up his photo of the same girl, “Easy. Posh girls love a bit of rough.”

“We’ll see about that, yeah?” Valdo waves his photograph and Geralt turns his own around, all three of them have the same target.

“We certainly will.”

* * *

The music in the club is loud and pounding, the bass shaking the walls and rattling in Jaskier’s teeth as he retrieves a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Watching as Valdo approaches the target, Sabrina, and sits down next to her on the curved couch. They all have comms in, so they can hear each other speak, and Jaskier isn’t looking forward to what that means if he doesn’t win this.

They’re all dressed much more nicely than he’s ever seen, Geralt in black slacks and an open black suit jacket, his white shirt with the top two buttons popped, and Valdo wearing dark gray slacks and a burgundy blazer with a complementary button down. Jaskier himself is wearing new black chucks and stockings, a shimmery gold mini skirt, and a blood red v-neck under a black leather jacket.

“Hi,” Valdo says over the music, leaning in close to Sabrina who looks at him and gives him a pleasant smile, “I just had to come over and say, _amazing_ eyes. Are you wearing color contacts?”

“No!” Sabrina laughs.

Valdo shakes his head playfully, “You so are.”

“Oh, gods, negging,” Geralt moves in, sitting down on Sabrina’s other side. He looks loose and relaxed and has an easy-going expression on his normally pinched face. Honestly it makes Jaskier a bit uncomfortable.

“That’s hilarious,” he continues, looking at Valdo, “I haven’t heard anyone try that since the noughties2.”

“Excuse me?” Sabrina asks curiously.

Geral leans closer to be heard better, “Negging. Saying something negative to a pretty girl in order to undermine her social value.” Valdo scoffs in disbelief and Geralt smirks at him, “it’s supposed to make you want to win his approval. Absurdly basic, neuro-lingual programming technique.”

Jaskier decides he’s done with waiting and moves in, “Is it just me or does this champagne taste a bit funny?” He sits down in a chair across from the three of them on the couch.

“It’s an acquired taste, mate,” Valdo shoots back immediately.

Geralt takes pity on him though, “I think it’s just cheap.”

“Get one of these instead,” Sabrina smiles at him over her martini glass, an orange peel hooked on the side, “They’re delicious.”

“You know, if you’re into seduction techniques, this guy is textbook,” Valdo points to Jaskier and he raises an eyebrow as he leans forward to rest his elbow on his knee, taking a drink of his champagne. “See what he just did? It’s called an opinion opener. He got you talking with a neutral question, got all of us involved in the conversation, so that you craved individual attention.”

“No, I’m just saying this champagne tastes rank,” Jaskier shakes his head with a confused frown.

Their conversation is prevented from continuing as a thin waiter with pointed features walks over, “Lady Sabrina Glevissig, phone call for you at reception.”

Her intrigued expression drops and she stands up, giving them another small smile of exasperated apology, “I’ll be right back.”

“We’ll see you in a bit, yeah?” Jaskier looks up at her with a friendly smile.

Geralt nods in agreement, “See you in a bit.”

“Budge up, Geralt, I’m feeling a bit rough,” Jaskier says as he plops down beside the larger man. His stomach is in knots, and not because of any sort of anxiety. He takes another sip of his champagne to try and ease the pain with the carbonation.

“Are you alright?”

He grimaces and shakes his head, “No.”

“Sorry to eavesdrop,” the waiter is still standing there, holding a bottle of champagne, “but you know, there’s a much easier way to guarantee getting someone home. Rohypnol.”

Jaskier’s head is feeling fuzzy as he squints up at the waiter, his vision blurring and his limbs growing heavy. The trainees glance at each other and the waiter continues with a cruel smile, “Or even something stronger.”

The music sounds distorted and far away in Jaskier’s ears as his eyelids slide shut of their own accord and he feels himself slump over onto Geralt’s warm shoulder. A weight rests atop Jaskier’s head and that’s the last thing he notices before everything goes dark.

When he wakes up, he’s laying on his back and his neck is hurting something fierce from whatever cold metal that runs beneath it. His mouth is dry and tastes rancid so he smacks his lips a few times as he opens his groggy eyes. Jaskier looks around in a drug haze of confusion, noticing the ropes tied to the metal thing beneath his neck.

When his head lolls to the other side, he spots the waiter from the club. Only now, instead of a nice white tuxedo, he’s dressed in a black overcoat and has a knife in his gloved hand. They seem to be in a tunnel, and it slowly filters into Jaskier’s mind that he’s laid on a train track.

“Who th’fuck ‘re you?” Jaskier slurs, squinting at the waiter. He flails his hands in an emphatic shrug and feels something tug against his wrists, “Wh’re’m I?” He frowns and looks at his hands, spying ropes around his wrists that are tied to the same metal that goes beneath his neck, but the drugs stopping him from feeling any panic just yet. He’s _tied_ to a train track. _Like an old Radovid movie_ , he muses.

“This knife,” the waiter raises it and walks closer, standing at Jaskier’s feet. Which, he notices, are also bound to the track. “Can save your life, eh?”

The waiter looks down the tunnel and Jaskier’s frown deepens, following the waiter’s gaze. At the end of the track is the bright headlight of a train, and a moment later a blaring horn echoes down the tunnel. His eyes widen slowly as adrenaline pumps into his system, flushing the rest of the drug haze away, and he begins struggling against the bindings, “Fuck!”

“My employer’s got two questions for you, Jaskier,” the waiter says and Jaskier glances at him before looking back at the oncoming train, starting to pant from his struggles, “what the _fuck_ is Kingsman? And who’s Vesemir Morhen?”

Jaskier looks over at him in a panic, his heart racing as he shouts, “I don’t know who the fuck that is! Shit!” His voice breaks as he sees how close the train is getting, the locomotive showing no signs of slowing down. The light on the front of it is starting to illuminate their portion of the tunnel.

“Oh, Jaskier, I just killed two of your friends for giving me the same bullshit answer!”

“Fuck!” Jaskier groans, arching his back to straining against the ropes on his wrists, “Just cut the fucking ropes, please!”

“Hey, Jaskier!” the waiter shouts over the loud clickety-clack of the train wheels on the track, “Is Kingsman worth dying for?”

“F…” Jaskier gasps, his eyes focussed on the train. When he can make out the space beneath the train and the track, he turns away and shuts his eyes tightly as he screams, “ _FUCK YOU_!”

The train rushes by, the wind coming off of it blowing his hair around his face, and then the locomotive is gone. Jaskier hesitantly opens his eyes, his body still tensed up, and he sees that the section of track he’s tied to has lowered down beneath the rest of it so that the train could pass harmlessly overhead. The lowered track raises up again and, to his immense relief, he sees that the waiter is gone and in his place stands Vesemir.

“Congratulations,” Vesemir nods, “bloody well done.”

Jaskier looks down the empty track and then back at Vesemir, nodding in stunned greeting as he sniffs, “how’d the others do?”

“Geralt passed with flying colors. Valdo’s up next. Want to watch?”

Jaskier huffs, “yeah. Alright.”

Vesemir cuts him free and leads him into a hidden room where Merlin is sitting behind a desk. There’s also a woman Jaskier doesn’t recognize standing behind Geralt, who’s waiting, looking pale and a bit shaky. Jaskier’s sure he looks much the same as he goes to stand next to his friend, the two of them turning their attention to the screen on the wall. His cheeks flush a little as Geralt’s hand reaches out and grabs his, tightly lacing their fingers together as though Jaskier might float away if he didn’t.

They watch as Valdo’s unconscious body is brought in and tied to the same section of track that Jaskier had been bound to, and then Arthur enters the tunnel. He presses a button on his glasses and it camouflages his face to look like the waiter before carefully pushing a needle into Valdo’s neck and pressing down on the plunger.

Valdo wakes up a few minutes later with the same confusion that Jaskier had, and he suspects Geralt had, too. “What th’... fuck?” Valdo mumbles, “You’re that f’cking waiter.”

“Tell me what I want to know and I’ll cut you free,” Arthur-as-the-waiter says, his voice disguised as well, and he waves the knife, “My employer wants to know what the hell Kingsman is.”

“I…” Valdo glances down the tunnel as he sees the light of the train headlight, the horn blaring again, and he starts to writhe and fight his bindings, “Oh, fuck!”

“Tell me, Valdo! What’s Kingsman? Who runs it? Who’s Arthur?”

“Please, cut me free! Oh, fuck!”

“Valdo! Is Kingsman really worth dying for?”

That seems to get Valdo’s attention and he turns his pale eyes onto the waiter look-alike, “No it fucking well isn’t! Shit, I’ll tell you what you want, please!” He’s panting with panic as he pulls at the ropes, “Irion Stregobor is Arthur. Arthur’s head of a spy agency, it’s called Kingsman- Get me out of here!”

“Thank you, Valdo,” the waiter drawls before stepping back as the clickety-clack of the train gets louder, “much appreciated.”

“What? That wasn’t the fucking deal!” Valdo’s head whips back and forth between the retreating waiter and the train before he screams, “ _FUCK!_ ”

The track drops him and the train passes harmlessly overhead, just as it did Jaskier and Geralt, and they hear Valdo whimper a soft, “oh, fuck,” once the train has passed. Arthur has removed the disguise and is looking at Valdo with open contempt as the track raises him back up again.

“I had such high hopes for you,” Arthur says with a disappointed frown, “you’re a bloody disgrace.”

Valdo swallows hard, “Arthur, I’m sorry,” he takes a shaky breath, “at least untie me.”

“Untie yourself.”

Arthur turns and walks away down the tunnel and Valdo blinks in disbelief, “Arthur… Arthur, please.” When there’s no response, Valdo starts to shout, “I’m the fucking son of the… shit! Anyone? Hello?”

Merlin spins around in her desk chair to appraise them with an approving nod, “Galahad, Percival,” she addresses Vesemir and the unfamiliar woman, “congratulations. Your candidates have reached the final stage of the testing process. As tradition allows, you now have 24 hours to spend with them.”

Merlin looks at Jaskier directly then, “Jaskier, you should know, your mother reached this point. From now on,” she looks at Geralt as well, “there are no safety nets. Understood?”

Jaskier and Geralt glance at each other and nod. “Good. Dismissed.”

They turn and leave silently with their agents and hear Merlin face her desk and click on her microphone, “Valdo, time to go home.”

“Fuck you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Neuro-Lingual Programming. return to text  
> 2\. British slang for the decade between 2000-2009. return to text


	9. VIII

**[Kerack - Vesemir’s Home]**

“To pee, or not to pee.”

Jaskier points to the headline on a tabloid cover that’s framed and hung on the wall of Vesemir’s office. He’s changed into his own clothes again, back to his v-neck and red leather, before Vesemir escorted him to the gentleman’s home. It’s a pleasantly big townhouse at the end of a row with large windows and real wooden floors. The wallpaper is a soothing pattern of diamonds and across from the office is an open dining room.

“That was the headline the day after I defused a dirty bomb in Rinde,” Vesemir informs him, lounging back in his leather desk chair, dressed down to his shirtsleeves and trousers.

He smiles and looks around at all the headlines framed on the walls before spotting another, “Nilfgaard - 1, Temeria - 5.”

“Missed that game. I was breaking up an undercover spy ring at Ban Ard.”

Jaskier grins and sticks his hands in his pockets, looking at the wall and spotting a cover with a black and white image of Calanthe and Eist’s marriage. He struts over to it and raises a hand, tapping on the frame and lifting an eyebrow at Vesemir.

“My first mission. Foiled the assassination of King Vizimir.”

“Not everybody’d thank you for that one.”

“The point is, Jaskier,” Vesemir turns as Jaskier takes a seat across from him, “Nobody thanked me for any of them. Front page news on all these occasions was celebrity nonsense. Because it’s the nature of Kingsman that our achievements remain secret.” Jaskier nods slightly in understanding and Vesemir continues, “A gentleman’s name should appear in the newspaper only three times: when he’s born, when he weds, and when he dies. And we are, first and foremost, gentlemen.”

Jaskier chuckles and slouches down in his seat, “That’s me fucked, then,” at the vaguely blank look on Vesemir’s face, he elaborates, “Well, it’s like Valdo said: I’m just a pleb.”

“Nonsense. Being a gentleman has nothing to do with the circumstances of one’s birth. Being a gentleman is something one learns.”

“Yeah, but how?”

Vesemir looks at him for a moment before his lips twitch and settle back into his neutral expression, “Alright, first lesson. You should have asked me before you took a seat.” Jaskier looks a little crestfallen and ashamed but Vesemir speaks on, “second lesson: how to make a proper martini.”

Jaskier blinks and looks up, an enthusiastic smile spreading across his lips, “ _Yes_ , Vesemir.”

* * *

**[Unknown Location - Secret Bunker]**

Buzzing and the faint smell of burnt flesh fills the air of the console room as Gaunter stands behind the desk with his hand flat against the screen. A red outline frames his fingers and his arm twitches as he grimaces, “Ah! Gods-damn, this _hurts_!”

Fringilla looks unimpressed, with her arms crossed as she watches him from the other side of the desk, “You’re the one who asked for a biometric security system. What’s wrong with a simple switch?”

Gaunter looks up at her, appalled, “A _simple switch_? This is an extremely dangerous machine! It should only be operated by someone as responsible and sane as me. Bad shit could happen if it falls into the wrong hands!” The red outline turns blue and he pulls his hand away from the surface, shaking it out with a gasp, “Whoa! We done here? Shit!”

“No,” Fringilla pushes forward a large silver case and undoes the latches on it, “Now this one. For the test at the church.” She opens the lid and a monitor swings open out of it, revealing a smaller version of the display on the desk.

Gaunter shakes his head, cradling his smarting hand to his chest, “This one just has a short range. A simple switch will do.”

* * *

Jaskier looks down at their feet as they walk along the Kerack sidewalk, noting the differences in their walking style and shoes. Vesemir is wearing a nice pair of dress shoes while Jaskier has on the black chucks he purchased with Kingsman’s money the night before, having stayed in Vesemir’s guest room overnight. Vesemir’s constant companion, his umbrella, swings gently forward and back as though he were going to use it as a walking cane, and Jaskier sticks his hands deep in his pockets as he lifts his gaze to the gentleman’s face.

“So are you gonna teach me to talk proper too? Like in My Fair Lady?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Vesemir shakes his head slightly, his glasses transitioned to darker lenses for the sunlight, “Being a gentleman has nothing to do with one’s accent. It’s about being at ease in one’s own skin.” Jaskier cocks his head slightly, not quite understanding. “As Hemingway once said, ‘there is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man. True nobility is being superior to your former self.’”

They pause in front of Kingsman tailors and Jaskier looks thoughtful as Vesemir takes the two steps up to the door and pulls it open, “Now, the first thing every gentleman needs is a good suit.” Jaskier hurries to follow him into the shop and Vesemir walks towards the desk, turning to lay his hand on the folded trousers atop a table, “and by which I mean a bespoke suit. Never off the peg.”

Jaskier nods in impressed approval but Vesemir keeps talking, “And Kingsman suits are always bulletproof, so let’s get you measured. And then, whether you get the job or not, you’ll have a lasting and… useful, memento of your time at Kingsman.” He then heads for fitting room one and the tailor speaks up.

“I’m so sorry, sir, but a gentleman is completing his fitting. Fitting room _two_ is available,” the tailor puts emphasis on his words and Vesemir turns around leisurely.

“One does not use fitting room two, when one is popping one’s cherry.”

Jaskier bites back the urge to snicker.

“Perhaps I’ll show you fitting room _three,_ while we wait.”

The tailor nods with a small smile and Vesemir crosses the shop to open the door to the third fitting room, a golden 3 on the dark wood. Jaskier follows him in and faces the mirror, getting dejá vu from the experience, without the horse this time, and he’s glad he looks miles more presentable. Vesemir turns around to face the mirror as well after closing the door.

“So, we going up or down?”

“Neither.” 

Jaskier looks at him in the reflection, a bit confused, “This it?”

“Of course not.” Vesemir nods his head to the hooks on the wall, “You know the drill. Pull the hook on your left.”

“You don’t need to…” Jaskier mimes putting his hand on the glass and the gentleman shakes his head.

“Not this time, the tailor did the work for me.”

He hesitates a moment longer before reaching over and pulling the hook downward. It clicks and there’s a whirring sound before the wall releases into a hidden door, the entire section of clothing hooks swinging inwards. Jaskier looks over his shoulder at Vesemir in amazement, a large smile settling on his lips. He then goes through the door, pushing it open the rest of the way, he sees the interior of the room beyond.

It’s set up like a large, walk-in closet, but instead of clothes hanging from racks there are weapons and gadgets of all sorts along the walls. Shoes are lined up on some angled shelving to display them and rifles are hung from a weapons wall. In the center of the room are plush benches and Jaskier spots several of Vesemir’s umbrellas hung on the wall to his right, along with shelving that displays golden lighters, ornate watches, and signet rings. There are more of the fountain pens that Jaskier’s seen before as well as what looks like bottle stoppers, knives of all kind, and even belt buckles.

“Oh, yes,” Jaskier grins, “Very, very nice.”

“Now, you’re going to need a pair of shoes to go with your suit,” Vesemir says as he brushes past Jaskier into the room, making a beeline for the wall of dress shoes, “An oxford is any formal shoe with open lacing.” He indicates the black leather with the laces looped over top of the eyelets, “this additional decorative piece is called broguing.” He points to the finery on the toe of some of the oxfords.

“Oxfords, not brogues,” Jaskier murmurs with an impressed smile.

“Words to live by, Jaskier, words to live by,” Vesemir lifts a pair of oxfords off the rack and hands them to Jaskier, “Try a pair.” Jaskier sits down on one of the benches to put the shoes on as Vesemir wanders away.

“Your weapon scores are excellent, by the way,” he says and Jaskier clicks his tongue with a cheeky wink. Vesemir indicates the wall of umbrellas, with pistols on the rack beside them, “These you’re familiar with, and this is our standard-issue pistol.” On a shelf below the firearms are colored shotgun shells. “It’s quite unique, as you’ll see it also fires a shotgun cartridge for use in messy, close-range situations.” He turns to see if Jaskier has the oxfords on yet, “how do they feel?”

“Yeah, good,” Jaskier looks down at the shoes and then back up at Vesemir again.

He nods, “Now do your very best impression of a Nilfgaardian aristocrats’ formal greeting.”

Jaskier pauses before standing and doing a mocking imitation of an offensive Nilfgaardian gesture, giving Vesemir a teasing grin. “No, Jaskier.” He shrugs then, unsure what that could mean and Vesemir demonstrates, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet so that he can click his heels together.

A knife slides out of the toe of his right shoe and Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, “That is sick.” He does the same motion and watches as the knife pops out of his own shoe, wiggling slightly with excitement.

“In the old days, they had a phone in the heel as well,” Vesemir remarks.

“How do I get it back in?”

“Well, it’s coated in one of the fastest-acting neurotoxins known to man, so…” Vesemir steps to the wall and gently uses the footboards to push the blade back into the shoe until it locks in place, “very carefully.” Jaskier does the same and then sits down to remove the shoes again as he looks up at Vesemir.

The gentleman picks up one of the pens on the wall and Jaskier sees that there’s two versions of it. One is the kind that he used for the general knowledge test, and the other is a bit simpler. The simpler of the two is what Vesemir is displaying currently. “Now, I’ve had a lot of fun with this,” he says, a small smile dancing on his lips as he uncaps the fountain pen.

“One of our finest examples of chemical engineering. A poison, harmless when ingested,” he pulls the nib out of the pen to reveal a small vial of dark liquid before replacing it and recapping the pen, “but at a time, when it is convenient to you, can be remotely activated.” He pushes on the pocket hook and the pen hums as it activates, the hook popping out. “Primed,” Vesemir pushes the hook so that it’s perpendicular to the pen before snapping it back into place, “lethal.”

“And what about these?” Jaskier asks as he stands up again, his eyes on the gold-plated lighters. He picks one up and turns it over in his hands, “What do these do? Electrocute you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s a hand grenade.”

“ _Shut up_.”

“If you want to electrocute someone, you’ll need a signet ring.” Vesemir indicates the rings on a shelf above the grenades and Jaskier looks up with his mouth slightly open, putting the grenade back on the shelf, “A gentleman traditionally wears the signet on his left hand, but a Kingsman wears it on whichever hand happens to be dominant.” He lifts his left hand to display the signet on his pinkie, “touch the contact behind the ring and it delivers 50,000 volts.”

Jaskier looks impressed, leaning his shoulder against the wall and looking across the room, “And what about them?” He points to the tablets and phones on the wall opposite them, “What makes them so special?” When Vesemir turns to look, Jaskier raises his hand to nick one of the lighters and slips it in his pocket.

“Nothing. That technology’s caught up with the spy world.”

Vesemir walks past him and he follows as they head to the door when the gentleman speaks again, “Put it back, Jaskier.” 

He drops his head back in exasperation but turns on his heel and puts the grenade back on the shelf before following Vesemir out into the shop once more.

“Ah, perfect timing,” the tailor says as they exit the fitting room, “Gentleman’s just finished.”

The door to fitting room one opens and out of it walks Gaunter O’Dimm, dressed in an elaborate suit with long coattails. He looks up and grins when he spots Vesemir, greeting him happily, “Mr. Clambert!” Jaskier glances between Vesemir and O’Dimm but keeps his expression neutral. “What a coincidence! _You_ are totally the reason I am here. When you left my house, I was thirsting for that dope-ass smoking jacket you had on, and since I’m going to Royal Ascot, and apparently you need one of these penguin suits… here I am.”

Gaunter smiles and adds, “What are you doing here?” His eyes then slide to Jaskier, who’s standing behind Vesemir, “What’s up, man? Gaunter O’Dimm.” He reaches out and Jaskier politely takes his hand to shake, giving him a respectful nod.

“This is my new valet,” Vesemir says, looking at Jaskier before turning back to O’Dimm, “I was just introducing him to my tailor.”

“Another coincidence,” O’Dimm nods sagely, “So am I.” A woman with prosthetic legs walks out of the fitting room and steps up behind him, crossing her arms loosely.

Vesemir looks at them before speaking conversationally, “Have you had any chance to think further on my proposal?”

Gaunter nods, placing his hands on his hips, “Most definitely. My people will be getting in touch with you very soon. I guarantee it.”

“A word of advice: Ascot requires top hat. I might suggest Lock & Co.” At O’Dimm’s blank look, Vesemir explains, “Hatters. St. James’s.”

“Lox as in smoked fish?”

“As in ‘locked up’.”

“Oh,” O’Dimm says quietly before chuckling softly, “I have trouble understanding you people sometimes. You all… talk so funny.” They hold eye contact a few moments longer before O’Dimm turns and walks out of the shop. Jaskier eyes the woman and she lets her gaze flicker over him before smirking and following her employer.

“Gentlemen,” Vesemir says to the tailors, “would you look after him, please?” He glances at Jaskier and they nod their agreement before Vesemir heads for the door as well. Jaskier watches him go and then the tailor that had been in the fitting room with Gaunter waves him in.

Vesemir goes to where his car is parked and gets in the back seat, opening the on-board computer and sending a message to Lock & Co. to add something special to O’Dimm’s head piece. He then watches over the CCTV to follow Gaunter’s path to the hatters, and when he gets the encrypted link for the microphone feed, he opens it.

“ _Now this... is a dope-ass top hat,_ ” Gaunter’s voice comes out of the speakers of the computer, “ _Fringilla! Let’s go ascoting. Your hat looks fine, Fringilla, come_ on. _Don’t make me late for the King. Come on, Fringilla, we’re gonna be late! How far_ is _ascot? How far?”_

* * *

**[Unknown Location - Dirty Street]**

A loud honk wakes Jaskier up and he sits up quickly, his heart pounding in his chest. Wind rustles his hair and the smells of garbage and urine permeate his nose as he looks around the dark street he’s laying in. The street is empty except for a single police car that has its headlights on him. He feels oddly cool, and looks down at himself to find he’s completely nude, but there’s a piece of paper taped to his chest.

Jaskier rips the paper off to read the neat print on it: YOUR PASSPORT IS UNDER THE MATTRESS IN THE MASTER BEDROOM AT 188 SILVER TOWERS STREET. IF YOU’RE NOT BACK AT BASE IN 24 HOURS, YOU’RE OUT.

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispers and the police car honks at him again, making him jump, “Fuck! Alright!” He gets to his feet and tries to think of the last thing he remembers. He was being fitted for his suit and they had just finished, he thought he looked quite dashing but now he might not ever get to even wear it if he can’t make it back to Kerack.

He unsteadily walks over to the cruiser, his stomach rebelling against whatever drug they used to knock him out, and the door opens as an elf gets out, aiming a gun at him. Jaskier immediately throws his hands in the air in a sign of peace and the elf barks something in Elder. Jaskier’s Elder speech is rough at best so he squints with a frown, replying in common, “I don’t speak your language!” 

The elf speaks again, this time in common as well, “Cover your balls, you dirty Temerian pig.” Jaskier does as he’s told, lowering his hands in front of him. The elf holsters his gun and pulls handcuffs off of his belt as he walks forward, but the moment he’s within reaching distance, Jaskier’s fist darts out and he knocks the officer unconscious.

He bends down to read the badge and his eyes widen as he groans, “Dol Blathanna? Son of a whore.” 

With a put-upon sigh, Jaskier removes the cop’s uniform from the prone body and dons it himself. It’s a bit short in the wrists and legs, and very tight across the chest and shoulders, but he just unbuttons the top few to relieve some of the tension in the fabric. Hopefully it won’t tear. He looks down at the elf on the ground and decides to take the officer with him, binding the elf’s hands with the handcuffs and then depositing him in the trunk of the car.

Jaskier gets into the driver’s seat of the cruiser and punches in the address on the GPS, cursing as it loads slowly, “Piece of _piss_.” He waits impatiently as the little circle spins and spins until it loads up the directions to the address on the paper. “Fucking finally,” he hits the gas and turns the sirens on, fiddling with the radio as he drives quickly, until it settles on something fast paced to match his mood.

It takes an hour to reach his destination, an enormous, elaborate mansion built on the precipice of a tall cliff. The front of the drive had a sign over it that named the property as “The Edge of the World”, and Jaskier pulls up around the circle drive to park in front of the house. He really doesn’t remember enough Elder to do this with ease, so he retrieves the cop’s phone and pulls up a translation app before getting out and going up to the large double doors.

He drops the door knocker twice and then settles back to wait, putting his hands behind his back as he rocks back on his heels. It opens a few moments later with a loud creaking, a man with a furry white beard and hair slicked to look like horns holding it. He’s tall and broad and just a little bit intimidating but he looks incredulous at the sight of Jaskier in his too-small police uniform standing barefoot on the porch.

Jaskier clears his throat and speaks, in Elder, as he winces at his accent, “ _I have a need to check your house_.”

The man laughs and Jaskier frowns, pulling the phone out to check his translation, “ _I need to search your house_.” 

“ _Is this a joke?_ ” The man asks with a grin.

“Hold on,” Jaskier says in common, “uh… _poszanowanie_?”

He raises his eyebrows, speaking in accented common, “Respect?”

“Ahh, no, I… oh autocorrect, um…. _Powtarzać_ ,” he tries again with a grimace, “Repeat? I didn’t understand. Look, may I-”

“Maybe you will understand this.” He slams the door shut and a moment later the wood is blasted into chips as machine gun fire slams through it. 

“Fuck!” Jaskier turns tail and sprints back to the car, somehow avoiding being riddled with bullets as he jumps into the cruiser and guns it in reverse. The tires squeal on the concrete and the car jumps backwards as he peels out of the driveway, going all the way back to the street before stopping and turning the car off. 

He takes a few moments to catch his breath when he suddenly becomes aware of the muffled screaming and thumping coming from the trunk. His getaway must have awoken the officer, and he doesn’t feel right leaving the elf to suffocate in there, so he gets out and pops the trunk open. The officer looks disheveled and angry, his cheeks flushed all the way to the tips of his pointed ears, and his dark eyes are bright with fury.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“I, uh…”

The cop sits up in the trunk and spots the mansion in the distance, his eyes widening before laughing, “Crazy _człowiek_ 1, you try to go in there?”

“They have my passport,” Jaskier says a bit helplessly.

“This is house of Filavandrel aén Fidháil. Crime boss. Maybe biggest in the world. You work for him?” The cop holds out his wrists and Jaskier quickly uncuffs him while shaking his head.

“No! I’m on your side and I need to get in there. I’ll let you go, but I need your gun.”

The cop climbs out of the trunk, his eyebrows raised in disbelief, “You try to kill them? You crazy.” Jaskier’s heart sinks and he’s already thinking of a new plan when the cop opens the passenger door and lifts the seat, revealing a hidden cache of guns, “But doing something I would love to. Take your pick.”

“Oh,” Jaskier sighs in relief and comes closer, “Thank you so much, seriously. You’ve no idea how helpful this is.” He picks a silenced pistol and a knife, hiding both of them on his person, “Don’t suppose you’ve got any other clothes, huh?”

“No, but give me my shirt back at the least.”

Jaskier looks down at the straining buttons and shrugs, “Fair enough. Sorry, mate. For knocking you out and all.” He sheds the uniform shirt and the cop puts it on, clearly looking more comfortable to be partially clothed again.

The elf shrugs, unusually casual about the assault, “You could have killed me. Be safe, stupid _człowiek._ ” Jaskier gives him a two-fingered salute as the cop gets into the car and drives away. He then takes a deep breath and looks at the mansion, starting to make his way back over again in the cover of darkness.

He figures the master bedroom is most likely at the back of the house and on the second floor. It’ll be the most secure location and safest in the event of a break-in or earthquake, so Jaskier makes his path a large loop along the edge of the property until he can see the rear. He presses his lips together, scanning the dozens of identical windows, and decides to choose one at random. He scales the back of the house up to the second floor, finding a window that’s partially open to let a breeze into the room, so he looks for a way to remove the screen.

Jaskier whispers a curse as the wire-mesh screen is built into the window itself, so he pulls the silenced pistol out and looks around the room as best he can to make sure it’s empty. There’s a door that he suspects leads to an en suite bathroom, the light on underneath it, so he shoots through the screen. He aims for the mattress so the bullet is muffled by springs and stuffing, and then prays that his hand won’t get too gouged as he pushes it through the hole in the wire.

The metal cuts into his skin, leaving deep slices that cause thin rivulets of blood to run down his skin to his elbow, and then to his armpit as he continues to push his arm further through so he can reach the latch. Tears spring to his eyes from the sharp pain, but he blinks them away and pulls his arm out quickly once he’s unlocked the screen portion of the window. This is a mistake as the metal catches against his skin and rips gouges into it, and he presses his face against his shoulder to stop himself from shouting.

“Son of a cocksucking whore motherfucker!” He whisper-screams against his skin, “Fuck, _shit_ , ow!” The toilet flushes in the bathroom and he stifles a groan, this test sucks and he hates it and he just wants to go home _now_.

Jaskier opens the window and slips into the room, closing the screen behind him and hoping that the occupant of this bedroom won’t notice. He glances around and sees that the walls are painted in colorful blocks, coloring pages taped to them with scribbles of markers across them. The bedspread has a cartoon character on it and strewn across the floor are various toys.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he whispers in dismay. Of all the rooms he could have chosen, he managed to pick a _kid’s_ room? The door to the bathroom opens and Jaskier darts forward, pressing up against the wall beside the door. Kids aren’t observant enough to notice him right here so long as he’s in the shadows, not when they’re tired. 

He’s right, too, as a little elven girl of about five wanders out of the bathroom and clicks the light off, rubbing her eyes. She yawns and crawls back into bed, tucking the covers up around her and quickly falling back asleep. Jaskier waits until he’s certain her breathing has evened out and is steady enough for him to escape the room, and then goes to the bedroom door. He opens it just a sliver to see into the hall, spotting a guard’s retreating back. 

Jaskier counts the guard’s footsteps, getting a feel for the rhythm and then closing the door again to wait when he sees the guard turning around. He taps his foot silently to the beat and counts how many occur until he hears the guard passing the door. Forty seven. There’s forty seven paces from the end of the hall to the bedroom door. Since this room is fairly central in the house, it stands to reason that there’s forty seven paces in the other direction too.

He continues to count, and after another forty seven he hears the approaching footsteps of the guard. Once they’ve passed the door, he opens it and rushes out, wrapping his arm around the guard’s throat and clapping his opposite hand over the guard’s mouth. The guard bites him and Jaskier hisses as he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth but doesn’t relent and soon the guard is slumping down against him.

Jaskier eases the guard to the ground and then makes his way to the end of the hall where there’s a set of double doors marking the master bedroom. “Almost there,” he murmurs to himself, and presses his ear against the door to listen for activity on the other side. He doesn’t hear anything so he slips into the room and looks around, letting his eyes readjust to the darkness. 

There’s only one person in here, a pretty elven woman asleep in the large bed. He silences a sigh as he creeps forward and crouches down, shoving his hand under the mattress to feel along the bedframe for his passport, moving slowly to try and not wake the woman. He feels like he’s barely breathing, each inhale hardly bigger than a thimble full of air. The silence presses in around him and his heart jackhammers in his throat.

The woman stirs as she rolls over and he freezes, looking up to meet hazy green eyes. They both blink at each other before the woman gasps and then screams bloody murder. “Shit,” Jaskier swears and stands up, grabbing the mattress and tipping it over, dumping the woman onto the ground with the mattress on top of her, “Sorry!”

The bed base is exposed and Jaskier looks around it quickly. _His fucking passport isn’t there,_ those fuckers. He drops to his knees to check under the bed, just in case, and the woman has wriggled her way out from under the mattress. He hears footsteps pounding down the hall and draws his gun, spinning around to see four guards and a well-dressed man with pointed ears and pale blond hair, all carrying guns of their own.

Jaskier’s fucked.

* * *

**[Kingsman HQ]**

Merlin and Arthur make their way outside towards the air strip awaiting the arrival of a car that called ahead. They’re both on a joint call, with Merlin holding a phone that’s on speaker.

“ _Think O'Dimm's heading for the airport?”_ Vesemir asks.

“It’s possible,” Merlin replies, “Arthur’s updated MI5. Should be the boot up the ass they need. I’ll keep you posted.”

“ _Don’t take your eyes off of him, please. Not until he’s in custody.”_

“Agreed,” Arthur nods and smiles as the car pulls up and Geralt steps out of it, looking a bit disheveled and covered in soot, but otherwise unharmed, “A-ha! Here he is.”

“And with two minutes to spare,” Merlin nods in approval as he walks over triumphantly, “Very well done, Geralt.”

“Indeed. Heartiest of congratulations, and welcome to Kingsman,” Arthur shakes Geralt’s hand, “Our tailors will get you your suit made posthaste.”

“Jaskier hasn’t made it back?” Geralt asks with a frown. Both Merlin and Arthur shake their heads. “But he’s okay?”

“We’ve not had any word,” Arthur clasps his hands behind him, “What’s the matter? You should be celebrating!”

Out of the corner of their eye, a jet appears on the horizon and seems to be inbound for HQ. Arthur frowns and Merlin looks confused as her watch flashes and she dons a pair of glasses, “Yes, Control? Yes, I see it.” She looks over at Arthur, “We have an unidentified plane approaching, looks like it’s intending to land. Get clear.”

The three of them move to the edge of the runway and watch as the plane descends. It’s a sleek, black jet with no markings on it and tinted windows. It touches down with a wobbly squeal of tires. Armed Kingsman security run out onto the air field, loading their weapons and aiming at the plane as it comes to a stop in front of them. 

The door opens, a set of stairs descending, and a bound and gagged blond elf is thrown from the plane. He hits the ground with a grunt, dropping to his knees and glaring at the agents and security detail. 

“Hope you don’t mind I brought Filavandrel,” Jaskier announces as he steps out of the plane. He’s clad only in the pair of too-small police trousers and his right arm is sliced up to his bicep, bandaids plastered over the worst of the cuts. He’s also got a bruise blossoming on his shoulder and his hair has seen much better days, but otherwise he looks great. “Just thought if he was gonna do time, he should do it here. Learn something about the effect his trade has on others. Am I late?”

They all stare at him as he reaches the bottom step and nudges the elf with his foot, placing his hands on his hips. Geralt is the first to break free of the shock, and runs over to grab Jaskier in a tight embrace. Jaskier laughs in surprise and hugs him back.

“Oh! This is nice,” he grins and then gazes over Geralt’s shoulder at Arthur and Merlin, a knowing look in his blue eyes, “I hope nicking a plane’s not against the rules. It’s just that, you forgot to hide my passport.”

“Did we?” Arthur asks sourly.

“You’re within the time, Jaskier,” Merlin nods, a small smile on her red lips.

“So the tests continue.”

“Let them shower and change first, I can smell Jaskier from here.”

“Hey!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Human. return to text


	10. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mild Transphobia in one line, Mild Homophobia in a hate speech

“Merlin said you wanted to see me, sir?” Jaskier asks as he pokes his head into the library. Arthur is seated in an armchair before a roaring fire that fights off the late autumn chill, a second armchair angled towards him and a sheet of plastic on the ground between them. 

“Sit down,” Arthur commands and Jaskier walks over, taking the seat opposite of him. Greg follows him into the room with a small bark, panting as he runs around Jaskier’s ankles and then sits down as well on the plastic. “Pretty dog. What’s his name?”

“Greg.”

“As in Gregory?” 

“Nah,” Jaskier shakes his head with a rueful grin, “As in Gregjamin the First, the Canine King of Kerack.”

“Oh,” Arthur hums, blinking slightly in disbelief. He then clears his throat, “It pains me to admit it, Jaskier, but I think one day you might be as good a spy as any of them.” Jaskier smiles modestly and ducks his head for a moment at the compliment, and when he looks up again, Arthur is aiming a gun at him.

His eyes widen and the smile drops off his face, but a second later Arthur lets the gun spin on his finger so that the handle is angled towards Jaskier, “Take it.”

He does. His fingers wrapping around the cool metal as he holds it in confusion, watching as Arthur takes a luxurious sip from a glass of whiskey. What does Arthur want him to do with it?

“Shoot the dog.”

Jaskier blinks, a frown pulling his lips down as he stares at Arthur. Is he serious? Arthur’s expression doesn’t change and Jaskier slowly looks down at Greg, whose big, bulbous eyes are fixed on him. Greg is panting, his breath wheezing through his squashed nose, and his teeth stick out of his mouth just a little from his underbite.

In the adjacent room, Merlin is standing in front of Geralt, handing the man a gun. “This weapon is live,” she tells him and then gestures to Roach standing at their feet, “shoot the dog.”

Jaskier glances up at Arthur again and then turns the gun over in his hand, aiming it at Greg. The pug looks around, sitting properly as Jaskier’s trained him to do, and then focuses back on Jaskier. His brown eyes are watery and he looks at Jaskier with such trust that the gun wavers. Jaskier clenches his jaw. His hand tightens. He has to do this, he needs to follow orders. But what sick fuck would _shoot_ a dog?

Greg blinks at him, and Jaskier can’t do it. He shakes his head slightly and Arthur chuckles, “Give me the gun.” 

He feels his face crumple and he sees Arthur look at him out of the corner of his eye before he turns the gun on the gentleman. What an asshole, Jaskier’s never liked Arthur and this dickhead wanted him to _shoot_ his fucking _dog_. What has Greg ever done to anyone? Who would ever shoot-

A gunshot rings out in the adjacent room.

Jaskier glances at the wall. “At least the transgender’s got balls,” Arthur looks at him in disdain, “Get out. I knew you couldn’t make it.”

Jaskier’s jaw sets but he does the same move, allowing the pistol to spin on his finger as he hands it back. What he wouldn’t give to fucking punch Arthur, rage boiling in his stomach as he gets up and walks out of the library with Greg hot on his heels. Jaskier picks the dog up, needing to be reassured of Greg’s well-being as he exits the manor and takes a few deep breaths while at the top of the stairs. 

At the front of the drive is a black cab and Jaskier quickly runs to it, opening the backseat to put Greg in there. He then gets behind the driver’s wheel and is pleased to find the keys in the ignition, twisting them and driving the moment the engine has turned over. He drives straight home, from the countryside of Temeria all the way back to Kerack and parking in front of the old, dingy apartments that he’s known his entire life. This is better anyway, this is where he belongs.

He gets out of the Velen and lets Greg out, the pug following him closely as he walks up the three flights of urine-soaked stairs to the familiar, graffitied hallway. He goes to the apartment door that he knows as well as the back of his own hand, reaching above the frame for the spare key and frowning when he doesn’t feel it there. With a sigh, Jaskier knocks firmly and Greg sits down at his heels.

The door opens and his mum gasps in shock, immediately pulling him into a tight hug, “Oh, my _gods_ , Jaskier. Where have you _been_?” He hugs her back, pressing his nose into her hair and embracing the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo and cigarettes. “I’ve been so worried!”

“Sorry, mum,” he mumbles, “I… it was for a job thing, but… I blew it.”

“Oh, Jaskier,” she sighs and pulls back to look at him and he sees the bruise that’s purpling the skin around her eye. His expression darkens.

“Where is he?”

“I’m fine, Jaskier. Don’t get involved. Let me make you a tea.”

He shakes his head, “No, I should never have left you alone. This stops right here. Look after the dog, I’ll be back.”

His mum frowns and looks at the jumpsuit and brown boots he’s still wearing, “Jaskier, please. Change first at least and think this over.”

Jaskier huffs with a nod, “Fine, but only because I wanna get out of this fucking suit.” She steps out of the way and he enters the apartment with Greg following, and Ciri squeals with excitement when she sees him. “Hey, princess,” he smiles, his anger abating slightly at the sight of his little sister, “ _wow_ , look how much you’ve grown! You’re almost as big as me now, ain’t you?”

Ciri giggles and runs over, crashing into his knees. Greg yips and dances around them and the toddler looks delighted, “dobbie!”

“Yeah, he’s a doggie,” he crouches down in front of her and has Greg sit, “Pet gentle now, yeah? Do you think you can take care of him for me? I gotta do something for mummy and I can’t take him with me.”

“Na’e?”

“His name’s Gregjamin the First, the Canine King of Kerack,” Jaskier says in an official sounding voice and Ciri dissolves into giggles as she pets Greg, “But you can call him Greg.”

“Hi, G’eg!”

“So? Think you’re up to the job, princess? Can you watch Greg for me?”

Ciri nods and smacks a wet kiss on Greg’s head, “I lob G’eg!”

Jaskier ruffles her hair as he stands up again, “And Greg loves you, Ciri. Now, I’m gonna change and then go, so keep a good eye on Greg.”

“O’tay!”

“Good girl,” he goes to his old bedroom, surprised to see that it hasn’t been altered at all, and pulls off the brown combat boots and jumpsuit as fast as he can. He then changes into his usual fare of leather jacket, navy this time since his red one is still at Kingsman, a black v-neck and jeans. He straightens his jacket, looking in the mirror at his reflection, and the way he isn’t the same as he was before going to Kingsman. His jaw is sharper, the last of his baby fat having melted away, and his shoulders are broader from put on muscle. His clothes are a bit tight across the chest and in the rear, but it’s a problem he’ll have to rectify some other time.

His mother is chatting to him the entire time he’s changing, preparing him a mug of tea all the while, and he has half his attention tuned in as he thinks about how he’s going to kick Roben’s ass. “And I got one of them new fancy SIM cards from down at the shops. You know, the O’Dimm ones? Saw Priss and Essi in line, too, while I was down there. But I got one for me and one for Roben, and I picked up one for one of his mates as well, dunno which one. Have you got one yet, Jaskier? Jaskier?” 

His mother looks up to see him already at the door and he gives her an apologetic look as he opens it, “I have to do this, mum. He can’t keep getting away with it.”

She sighs and lowers her eyes, setting the mug of hot tea down on the counter, “Just go then, Jaskier. And try not to end up in hospital.” He walks over and presses a kiss to her head.

“I love you, mum,” he says quietly. He then heads out of the apartment, closing the door firmly behind him.

* * *

It’s in the fancy Velen cab that Jaskier pulls up in front of the Rosemary & Thistle, rolling down the window and leaning his elbow out of it to yell at Roben. His step-father is sitting outside with his lackeys, the group of them laughing as they drink and smoke.

“Oi, Roben!”

Roben looks over and takes his sunglasses off, “Oh, Jaskie. So, you’re back. What, you gone and nicked a fucking taxi now?”

“Yeah. Can I have a word about my mum’s black eye?”

“You want to have a word with me? You get out of that cab, I’ll knock you straight back down on your fucking arse.”

Jaskier glances at the goons and tilts his head back, “Tell your muppets to go inside, then I’ll get out.”

Roben sucks in his cheeks as he thinks, looking around at his buddies, “Go on, lads. There’ll be two hits: me hittin’ him; him hittin’ the floor.” His friends get up and start for the pub and Roben stands as well, lifting his fists and bouncing on the balls of his feet, “Come on, then. You prick. What you got, eh? Want a bit of me?”

Jaskier starts to reach for the door handle when the whirring of the window mechanism starts and, without him pressing the button, it rolls up. The door locks with a _chunk_ as well and he grabs the handle, yanking on it angrily as it refuses to stay unlocked each time he pulls the lock again, “No, no, no, no! Come on! Fuck!”

“What you doing?” Roben asks, moving towards the car, “Get out of the fucking car! What are you doing, you mug?” The car starts driving away without Jaskier controlling it and Roben throws his hands up, “What’re you doing? You’ve got no bollocks!”

“Come on, bruv!” Jaskier shouts, elbowing the door as the wheel turns of its own accord, “he hit my fucking mum!”

“Come back when you’ve grown a pair, Jaskie!”

Jaskier shouts and then slumps down in the seat, crossing his arms petulantly as he seethes and watches the car drive him along familiar streets. It turns onto a brick lane, at the end of which stands Vesemir’s townhouse. And on the balcony out front? Vesemir is holding a tablet, wearing an expression of disappointed fury.

Jaskier gets out of the car with a scowl, slamming the door shut behind him and stalking into the house. He is careful about shutting the front door of Vesemir’s home though, digging his hands deep in his jacket pockets and glaring at the ground as the man himself descends the stairs.

“You throw away your biggest opportunity over a fucking _dog_ ,” Vesemir says angrily, “And then you humiliate me by stealing my boss’s car.”

Jaskier looks up sharply with an expression of disgust, “You shot a dog just to get a fucking job?”

“Yes, I did,” he agrees and takes the final few steps as he beelines for the downstairs toilet, “And Mr. Wolf here reminds me of that every time I take a shit!” He pushes the door to the bathroom open, revealing a shelf with a taxidermy white terrier on it, a golden plaque reading ‘Mr. Wolf’ beneath it.

Jaskier looks disturbed as he stares at the dog, “You shot your dog and had it stuffed?” He looks over at Vesemir, “You fucking freak.”

“No, I shot my dog, and then I brought him home and continued to care for him for the next 11 years until he died of pancreatitis.”

“What?”

“It was a _blank_ , Jaskier,” Vesemir crosses his arms, “It was a fucking blank.” Jaskier’s frown turns to one of confusion as he glances at Mr. Wolf again. “Remember Marilka?”

“Yeah.”

“She didn’t drown. She works in our tech department in Blaviken; she’s fine. Limit’s must be tested. A Kingsman only condones the risking of a life to save another.”

Jaskier looks at him and then scowls, “Like my ma saved your life even though your fuck-up cost hers. Or have you got her stuffed here and all?”

Vesemir’s stern anger abates and he looks pained, “Can’t you see that everything I’ve done has been about trying to repay her?”

He looks at Vesemir for a few moments long and then breaks his gaze, looking down at the ground. A moment later, Vesemir’s glasses beep and he takes them out of his pocket, putting them on his nose to accept the incoming transmission from Merlin.

“ _Vesemir, listen to this, O’Dimm’s finally saying something of note_.”

Vesemir focuses as Merlin patches in the live feed to O’Dimm’s audio. “ _Y_ _ou know what I_ love _about pen and paper? No one can hack into this shit. Our worldwide tour was a complete success! We… have total coverall. Like when all your numbers in bingo are crossed out._ ”

Faintly, he hears Fringilla, “ _Bingo?”_

 _“Bingo. The game. You have played bingo, right?_ ”

“ _Do I look like I play bingo?”_

“ _Point is… if our tests go well at the church tomorrow, we are good to go.”_

“Church of the Eternal Fire,” Vesemir murmurs, “Merlin, get the plane ready.”

“ _Will do_.”

Vesemir turns around and Jaskier is biting his lip before he speaks, “Vesemir, I’m so sorry. I’m gonna do ev-”

“You should be. You just stay right there, I’ll sort this mess out when I get back.”

Jaskier watches as Vesemir leaves, following him to the front door and waiting until the cab that brought him here has driven away, before closing the door gently and sinking down on the bottom step with a sigh.

* * *

**[Novigrad - Church of the Eternal Fire]**

The sun is shining bright on the white chapel that the Church of the Eternal Fire has built for itself on the outskirts of Novigrad’s city limits. The rolling green hills and plentiful trees set a beautiful backdrop for the filth that spews from the mouths of the practitioners gathered within the church for congregation. Vesemir is seated in a far row, near the back of the chapel, with a thin-faced woman between him and the aisle as he listens to the preacher spout hate and bad tidings.

“And I say to you, bear witness!” The congregation shouts in agreement. “Watch the news! Watch the news! AIDS! Floods! The blood of the innocent, spilled! And yet, there are those who doubt this is the wrath of the gods?” More shouting and Vesemir presses his lips together. “Our filthy government condones sodomy, divorce, abortion, and yet some still doubt that _this_ is the work of Lilit!”

The congregation roars its approval at the foul flood that drops from the preacher’s lips and Vesemir glances around, his glasses firmly on his face. The preacher isn’t done with his sermon, though, and continues, “You do not have to be a Wozgor, a treefucker1, a whore, or a atheistic, science-lovin’ evolution spouter!”

“ _Charming sermon_ ,” Merlin’s voice comes through Vesemir’s earpiece, “ _Do you see O’Dimm anywhere?”_

Vesemir casually looks around, spotting a camera on the wall and pausing on it long enough for his glasses camera to zoom in on it while the preacher continues his rant. “So, my friends, although they are just gods, they are justly vengeful ones, and there can be no turning back from the almighty wrath that they wield!”

Across the street in the upper floor of a building, Fringilla looks through a window at the church as they listen to the sermon. She turns her head to look at O’Dimm, who is seated at a desk with the silver case open upon it and patched into the live feed of the security footage. “You sure we’re out of range?”

“We’re over a thousand feet away, what’s wrong?” Gaunter asks, looking up at her.

“What if the calculations are wrong?”

Gaunter pauses, almost uncertainly, before going back to typing on the keyboard in the case, “You just have to trust me.”

Vesemir frowns as the preacher repeats the things he’s already yelled, his face red and wet with perspiration that sticks his thinning hair and bad toupe to his skin. “...Wozgor, treefucker, _fag-_ lovers, and Lilit is burning them for _all eternity_!”

He decides he’s had enough and turns to take his leave, “Would you excuse me?” He says quietly to the woman he’s sitting beside.

She looks at him disapprovingly, her cheeks more like jowls in her thin face, “Where are you going?” Vesemir doesn’t deign to answer that and tries to get up. “Hey, what’s your problem?”

He sits back with a sigh, looking at her with a dead serious expression, “I’m a Dauk whore, currently enjoying congress out of wedlock with my elven, Wozgor boyfriend who works in a military abortion clinic. So, hail Lilit, and have a lovely afternoon, madam.”

She looks at him in stunned shock as he gets up and sidles past her between the pews, making his way towards the door. She stands as well, starting to shout at his retreating back, and across the street Gaunter frowns. 

“Oh, shit! He’s leaving!” He taps a few keys on the device, “I’m starting the test now. Let’s hope enough of the freaks have our SIM cards.” He hits enter and slowly cranks a dial on the device.

A repetitive tone starts beeping from phones in the church, and people withdraw them from pockets to see the O’Dimm logo on their screens and flashing in time with the sound. It grows in volume and intensity and Vesemir feels compelled to stop as he listens to the shouting and the droning tone from the phones.

“Just leave this church!” The woman sobs, furious that he was ever even in her presence, “Just leave this church like the infidel you are!” Vesemir’s footsteps slow as his thoughts become hazy, tinged with irritation. “Lilit cannot save you now! You will eat your babies! You will _drown_ in the blood of the lords! They will not s a v e _y o u_ …” 

He stops walking and reaches into his breast pocket, removing his pistol and turning around to aim it at the woman without thought. Her eyes widen in surprise, the beeping of the phones drowns out anything else in Vesemir’s ears and fills his mind with red. The droning whine suddenly increases in intensity and frequency until it becomes a single tone.

Vesemir pulls the trigger.

The bullet rips through the skull of the woman, and he’s barely aware of it as the congregation around him jump on one another. Fists are flying, blood is spraying. Skin being torn and bones being snapped and screams and shouts of rage fill the air.

Vesemir runs forward, his jaw clenched as he shoots another churchgoer. And another. And another. Their heads explode in sprays of crimson as they’re thrown back against the pews. He ducks as one swings a club, ripped from a statue of Melitele, at his head and shoots them in the stomach. When they double over, he shoots them in the head as well. Another person rushes him and he grabs them, using their body as a shield as he aims over their shoulder, spinning them both around. He shoves the person forward into someone else like a battering ram, and a man holding a piece of pew slams it over Vesemir’s back.

Vesemir aims behind him, shooting the man without remorse. He slams his human shield into the pews and ejects the empty cartridge from his gun, reloading it as he starts forward again and someone grabs his arm. They pull his gun down so he fires, hitting them in the knee, and their legs buckle so he shoots them in the head. Their hands fall away and he turns, grabbing a woman around the throat as he shoots another man. Then he buries a bullet in the skull of the woman in his arm.

He ducks beneath the swinging fist of a practitioner and kicks one of the pews. They domino on a group of four all pummeling one another and trapping them. As he rises, he fires again, another bullet finding its home in brain matter. Vesemir uses the toppled pews as a ramp and runs across the tops of still standing ones. He shoots a man who dives at his legs. He leaps off the pews and lands gracelessly atop another man. He rises to his knee and shoots the man in the head as he leans back, avoiding being skewered by a coat rack.

He turns again, pulling the trigger on his gun and finding it out of ammunition. Instead, he leaps forward and brings the butt of it down on a man’s back, grabbing him by the collar and tossing him aside. He leaps over the desk and someone slams him, knocking him into the pipes of the church organ which bounce together with a cacophonous clang. 

It’s chaos. It’s anarchy. It’s bloody and violent and awful and Vesemir _doesn’t care_. All he can think about is how he wants to hurt them. More than anything else in the world, he wants to kill anyone he sets his sights on. “ _Galahad! Can you hear me?”_ Merlin’s voice is faint in the enraged haze of his mind and he doesn’t reply. “ _Vesemir! Vesemir, what the heck is going on?!”_ He reaches forward and grabs a woman by the shoulders, turning her to catch half of a broken coat rack in her throat as someone tries to stab him with it.

“Can you turn the volume down a little, please?” Gaunter asks, across the street, having swapped places with Fringilla to look out the window while she monitors the bloodbath.

She does as he says, watching with awe and raised eyebrows, “I didn’t expect it to be that effective.”

“What kind of response are we talking?”

She has a smile spreading across her lips, “A hundred percent.”

Gaunter raises his brows, jerking back in surprise, “So everyone’s been affected, whether they have a SIM card or not. And we get the added benefit of wiping out the Kingsman.”

“Not yet,” Fringilla hums, watching as Vesemir spins a man into a choke hold and snaps his neck.

Vesemir then gets his hands on an incense holder, swinging the heavy copper ball into someone’s knee and then cranium. Sparks fly as the metal clangs and shatters bone upon impact. He throws the incense holder at another, the embers blinding them. Vesemir dives at them, knocking them to the ground and getting up just to be hit across the face with a wooden chair.

He falls back and turns over, grabbing a thick book off the ground. He raises it up as he gets to his feet, catching a knife in the leather cover as a thin man tries to stab him. He then uses the book as a bludgeon, smashing it into the larynx of the thin man. Vesemir spins, bringing the book with him, and slams it into the groin of another man behind him. As the man doubles over, he yanks the knife out of the book and slashes the man’s throat with the upwards momentum.

He turns and buries the blade in the neck of a woman, yanks it out, and then stabs it through the eye of another man who screams. Vesemir turns, grabbing the knife from the eye socket he put it in, and then slams the knife through the top of the skull of someone else. The blade disappears up to the hilt. He releases the knife and grabs a man’s collar and punches him across the face. And then again. And then again. Until someone else runs over and grabs the man around the middle and charges him through a window.

Vesemir removes an actual lighter from his pocket, not one of the gilded hand grenades, and the flame is as strong as a blowtorch. He shoves it in a woman’s face, setting her hair alight, and she screams as she grabs her face. A gun goes off and he ducks behind the woman, spinning her around. Her body catches the bullets and another man behind him starts shooting as well, first taking out the other shooter and then aiming at Vesemir. He knocks the outstretched arm away, punching the man with his other fist. A bronze candelabra flies between them. Vesemir gets ahold of the man’s gun and backhands him, grabbing him by the head. He bends the man down to shoot over him at someone else and then brings the man’s head down on his knee.

The man rolls across the ground and a woman trips on him, falling face first. Vesemir shoots her in the head and gets up as a knife is stabbed into his shoulder. He spins around, shooting the man in the head and then grabbing his body. He shoots another advancing man wielding a candlestick. He turns and shoots two more people and then the gun is out. The trigger clicks uselessly and he looks at it blankly for a moment before turning.

Another coat rack is being swung at him so he ducks. He yanks it out of the hands of the woman swinging it and shoves it through her stomach. He moves the woman so she’s lined up with two other people and thrusts the coat rack further. All three are impaled. He releases the rack and someone grabs him around the neck. Vesemir twists the face of his watch and it shoots out an electrified dart, loosening the grip the man has on him. He then pulls a gold-plated lighter out of his pocket and flicks it open. 

It begins to beep and where there would ordinarily be flame flashes red. He shoves it into the pocket of the man and grabs him by the back of the sweater, throwing him headfirst into the preacher’s bench. The man’s neck snaps back and his dead weight collapses. Vesemir turns, spotting a red fire axe embedded in someone’s back, and yanks it out. He swings it at a woman up against the organ, the axe cutting half through her neck and getting lodged in the wood.

The grenade detonates and the explosion knocks him to the ground, his ears ringing and his head clearing for just a moment. Vesemir’s neat hair is disheveled, his mustache stained with blood, and his bespoke suit is ripped and torn. As he rises to his feet, however, the red haze returns with the fading of the ringing in his ears. A man is stabbing a knife over and over into another man so Vesemir grabs it. He turns it on its owner and shoves the blade through the man’s neck.

He feels an impact against his back, his suit catching bullets as yet another person starts firing a gun. Vesemir rips the knife out of the man’s neck and turns, slashing it through the wrist of the gun-wielder. He grabs the gun in his free hand and stabs the knife into the shoulder of the pistol’s original owner, ducking the gun under his own arm to shoot two more people. A woman rushes him. He pulls the knife out and stabs it into her gut. He ducks a flying chair. He shoots a man in the head. 

Vesemir uses the butt of the gun to slam it against a man’s temple and then turns, putting the muzzle under another man’s chin and firing. The gun is out of ammo so he flips it over, removing the internal chamber from the shell, and stabbing the chamber into a woman’s throat and the shell through her eye. 

She has a pike made out of a piece of a flagpole in hand and he takes it from her, turning around just as the preacher gets the fire axe out of the organ. The preacher rears back to swing. Vesemir shoves the pike through the preacher’s skull from the underside of his jaw. The fire axe clatters to the ground as the preacher drops to his knees, the end of the pike lodging in another corpse and his weight making his head slide further down the wood.

Vesemir is gasping and panting for breath, sweat dripping down his temple as his wild eyes look around at the carnage. Calm music is playing on the church’s overhead speakers and his chest heaves as the red haze slowly leaves his mind. He blinks, his brow furrowing slightly, as he takes in broken pews and shattered windows and corpse after corpse after corpse. He vaguely remembers the fight, killing quite a few of the congregation, and also the parishioners killing each other all around him.

Back in Kerack, Jaskier is watching with huge eyes as the video feed from the Kingsman glasses plays on Vesemir’s laptop. His mouth hangs open in shock and he looks vaguely green from the massacre that he just witnessed through his mentor’s eyes.

Vesemir looks at the slaughter for a few moments longer, his expression morphing into one of angry disgust. He beelines for the exit, hopping over a pew that got shoved into the aisle, and slams the double doors to the church open. The cocking of guns stops him in his tracks.

Gaunter O’Dimm and Fringilla stand before him, flanked by armed guards who have their guns trained on him. Fringilla’s arms are crossed and she’s looking very smug, while Gaunter wears a pleasant smile on his face. As though he’s out for a stroll and ran into an old friend on the sidewalk. Vesemir takes a few steps forward, raising his hands to show he’s unarmed.

“What did you do to me?” He scowls at them, “I had no control. I _killed_ all those people.” Gaunter nods in agreement. “I wanted to.”

“Clever, isn’t it? In simple terms: it’s a neurological wave that triggers the centers of aggression and switches off inhibitors.”

“Transmitted through your nasty, free SIM cards I assume.”

Gaunter walks forward, his smile gone, and stopping a few feet from him, “Do you know what this is like? It’s like those… old movies we both love. Now I’m gonna tell you my whole plan, and then I’m gonna come up with some… _absurd_ and convoluted way to kill you, and you’ll find an _equally_ convoluted way to escape!”

Vesemir chuckles humorlessly, “Sounds good to me.”

“Well,” Gaunter’s lips press into a wan smile, “this ain’t that kind of movie.” He lifts a loaded gun and fires, covering his mouth as he looks away.

Vesemir falls.

“ _NO!”_ Jaskier screams, the screen painted red with Vesemir’s blood. 

Fringilla walks forward calmly and Gaunter gags, his voice tight, “Is he dead?”

“That tends to happen when you shoot someone in the head, yes,” Fringilla laughs softly, “It feels good, right?”

“No!” Gaunter shakes his head frantically, “No, it does not feel good. It feels fucking awful!”

“What? You just killed _how_ many people in that church? This is one guy.”

“No, no, no, they killed _each other_ ,” Gaunter takes a few deep breaths, digging in his pocket for his phone, “Okay, send out the countdown clock. This party starts tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Derogatory slang for an elf. return to text


	11. X

Jaskier slams the lid of the laptop shut, leaning back in the leather desk chair that Vesemir sat in only two days prior. His heart is thundering and his stomach is churning and he feels like he’s going to be sick. This can’t be happening. That didn’t just… But it did. It did and now Jaskier’s sitting in a dead man’s office, in a dead man’s chair, with a dead man’s achievements on the walls all around him.

He shoots to his feet, the chair rolling across the floor to bump against the back wall. He can’t be here. He can’t _be here_. But he can’t be anywhere else. Where does he go? What does he do? He can’t just do _nothing_. He can’t just sit there and be still and silent and motionless and a witness to a _crime_ and do absolutely nothing about it.

Jaskier storms out of the office but hesitates in the hall, his indecision stalling his feet. What _can_ he do? He’s got nowhere to go, no one in his corner, nothing to guide him. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart and ease his fluttering lungs. Think, Jaskier, _think!_ What would Vesemir do?

A flash of white catches his eye and he looks up. The door to the bathroom is open, still, and Mr. Wolf looks at him with his glass eyes from his position on the shelf. Vesemir’s words come to mind: _“Can’t you see that everything I’ve done has been about trying to repay her?”_

Guilt eats at Jaskier’s heart, making his chest tighten and his stomach twist and he wants to curl up and scream and cry and rage but he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he goes into Vesemir’s dining room, across from the toilet, and grabs the decanter of whiskey off the liquor display and opens it, pouring himself two fingers. He settles down at the head of the table, taking a long drink while still trying to get his breathing back under control, glancing up at Mr. Wolf again.

_“I see a young man with potential, who wants to do something good with his life.”_

Jaskier knows what he has to do.

* * *

The tires of the car he… borrowed from Vesemir’s garage squeal over the wet pavement as he pulls up in front of the lit storefront of Kingsman. Jaskier looks up at it through the window, having just the briefest moment of doubt, before he gets out and marches inside. The tailor nods at him respectfully, as though he’d been expecting Jaskier, and his biometric still scans for the elevator in fitting room one. 

After that, the trip is a bit of a blur, but the next thing Jaskier knows is he’s opening the doors to the dining room in Kingsman HQ to find Arthur sitting at the head of the table, an exquisite decanter filled with amber liquid, as well as two glasses, on the table in front of him.

“Arthur…” Jaskier says quietly, “Vesemir’s dead.”

“ _Galahad_ ,” Arthur corrects, “Is dead. Hence, we have just drunk a toast to him.”

“Well, then you know what that psycho’s doing. How many people around the world have got those SIM cards? O’Dimm can send his signal to any of them, all of them. If they all go homicidal at the same time, then-”

“Indeed,” Arthur interrupts him somberly, “And thanks to Galahad’s recordings, we have O’Dimm’s confession. The intelligence has been passed on to the relevant authorities. Our work is complete, and a most distinguished legacy for our fallen friend, it is, too.”

Jaskier looks at him sadly, “And that’s it?”

“Come and sit down, boy,” Arthur indicates the seat to his right and Jaskier slowly walks over. “This... is an 1815 Damboric brandy, and we only drink it when we lose a Kingsman.” He leans forward to pick up the decanter, and Jaskier sits down, looking at Arthur’s side profile. The gray hair swept back in a carefully styled venerable visage, the pale eyes that hold no compassion for the passing of Veesemir. “Galahad was very fond of you.” 

The pale pink scar behind Arthur’s right ear.

“And, on this occasion, I think it’s acceptable for us…” Arthur pours them each a finger of brandy, “to bend the rules a little.”

Jaskier presses his lips together for just a moment as he thinks. He then glances up at the portraits of men, in very old clothing, on the far wall and leans forward, “Are these all Kingsmen?”

Arthur looks up at them as well and Jaskier quickly swaps the glasses. “Yes, they’re, uh, founder members.” He looks back and lifts the glass closest to Jaskier, setting it down in front of the man, “I want you to join me in a toast.” They both raise their glasses and Arthur says somberly, “to Galahad.”

Jaskier watches him drink without hesitation and echoes the sentiment, “to Galahad.” He then knocks back his own finger of brandy, the fine spirit going down smoothly with only the slightest warmth left behind in his throat.

He settles back in his chair then, setting the glass down and lacing his fingers together over his stomach, “Vesemir says you don’t like to break rules, Arthur. Why now?”

“You’re very good, Jaskier. Perhaps I’ll make you my proposal for Galahad’s position,” Arthur pauses thoughtfully before adding, “Provided, of course, that we can see eye-to-eye on certain political matters.”

He reaches out to the tray that holds the decanter and picks up a sleek, black pen with gold accents, pressing a button on it. The pocket hook pops out with a small whine, “Can you guess what this is?”

“Mm, I don’t have to; Vesemir showed me.” Jaskier raises his eyebrows, “You click it, I die. I thought that brandy tasted a bit shit.”

Arthur chuckles, “Bravo.”

“O’Dimm won you over… somehow.”

“Once he explained, I understood. When you get a virus, you get a fever. When you get a fever, the body raises its core temperature to kill the virus. Planet Earth works the same way. Global warming is the fever, and mankind is the virus. We’re making our own planet sick, Jaskier. A cull is our only hope.

“If we don’t reduce our population ourselves, there’s only one of two ways this can go,” Arthur seems so assured of himself, so confident in the bullshit that he’s spewing to Jaskier. O’Dimm’s parasitic words parroted through a willing host. “The host kills the virus, or the virus kills the host. Either way, the result is the same. The virus dies.”

“So, O’Dimm’s gonna take care of the population problem himself,” 

“Well, if we don’t do something, nature will.” Jaskier looks over at Arthur again, having been staring at the wall while deep in thought. “Sometimes a culling is the only way to ensure that this species survives. And history will see O’Dimm as the man who saved humanity from extinction.”

“And he gets to pick and choose who gets culled, does he?” Jaskier raises his eyebrows, “All his rich mates, they get to live, and anyone he thinks is worth saving, he’s keeping them safe, whether they agree with him or not.”

“And you…” Arthur hesitates before forcing out, “Jaskier.” It’s as though just saying Jaskier’s name is a painful experience to him, deigning to stoop so low as to bring a _pleb_ like him into the elite ranks of those chosen to survive the premeditated genocide. “In Vesemir’s honor. I am inviting you to be part of a new world.”

Jaskier wants to scream. How could anyone be this dense? This dull? This so completely self absorbed and up O’Dimm’s ass that they’re licking the man’s fucking uvula and blindly believing every word spewed from the tech giant’s mouth? He wants to take Arthur by the shoulders and shake him until his brain has turned to mush inside his thick, stupid, idiot skull. But Jaskier doesn’t do that, despite how desperately he wants to. He can’t. It isn’t what Vesemir would do.

“It’s time to make your decision.”

He presses his lips together tightly, sitting completely motionless as he looks at Arthur for a very long time. He probably looks like he’s thinking; but, he’s certain that, if he looked down, his knuckles would be white from how tightly he’s holding his own hands. If it’s for the comfort of his aching heart, or to stop himself from beating the shit out of this horrible man, he’s not quite sure. But he looks, and he thinks, and the world turns around them slowly, slowly, in a way it didn’t before as the silence stretches on between them, growing out of a puddle and flooding into an ocean.

Jaskier’s eyes slide away as he makes his final decision. He never even entertained the thought of joining Arthur, rather he was coming to terms with the risk he was taking. If he’s wrong… if he’s made a mistake… if anything he’s done in the past five minutes hasn’t been _exactly_ right… He brings his eyes back to Arthur’s, holding the pale gaze defiantly.

"I'd rather be with Vesemir," he smirks, "thanks."

Arthur’s careful expression of benevolence melts into a twisted scowl of contempt, “So be it.” He clicks the pocket hook of the pen, switching it from primed to _lethal_. Jaskier tilts his head at Arthur, glancing down at himself with raised eyebrows before making eye contact with the gentleman once more. 

Arthur jerks. His face screws up in a grimace as he gasps and grunts, grabbing his stomach with a groan.

“The problem with us common types is,” Jaskier says conversationally, picking up his empty glass from the table to inspect it, “that we’re light-fingered.”

Arthur rocks forward in his chair, trying to relieve some of the pain in his gut.

“Kingsman’s taught me a lot, but… sleight of hand? I had that down already.

Arthur is gasping and wheezing, his breath coming in hard pants as his body fights to stay alive for just a few seconds longer. And with his last breath, that final whistling inhale, Arthur wheezes, “You… _dirty_ , little… _fucking_ prick.” He slumps forward, his head hitting the table with a dull _thunk_ , and Jaskier looks on apathetically.

The scar behind Arthur’s ear grabs Jaskier’s attention again and he frowns, getting up out of his seat and picking up the black pen as he leans over the still warm corpse. Using the sharp nib, he jabs the tip into Arthur’s neck and cuts along the pink line, lifting the skin to reveal blood soaked wires. With a grimace, he lifts the wire with the nib so he can grab it with his fingers, pulling out a foot-long length of copper that had been wound under Arthur’s skin, and is capped with a microchip.

A faint beeping catches his ear and he looks over at Arthur’s cell phone, the screen face down on the table. Jaskier sets the pen down and picks up the phone, turning it over to see the O’Dimm Corporation logo and a notification.

G-DAY STARTS IN

05:59:59

GET TO A SAFE ZONE OR FLY TO

66º58’30.0” N / 61º43’04.8” E

* * *

“It’s okay, Lancelot, put it down. It’s verified.”

Geralt lowers the gun he has trained on Jaskier, glancing at Merlin. She’s looking at Arthur’s phone, reading the same notification that’s been on the screen since it chimed fifteen minutes earlier. Jaskier had immediately begun trying to find them, checking Merlin’s office, the control room, the training rooms, the barracks, even room nine. He found them in the underground hangar, having been doing vehicle maintenance training that Jaskier, he’s proud to say, wouldn’t have needed.

“Arthur’s phone’s receiving updates about getting to safety. We don’t have a lot of time.”

Jaskier lets his hands drop, his expression grim as he glances between Geralt and Merlin. He does take a second to glance over his friend, though, pleased to see that Geralt looks well, dressed in riding boots, dark jeans, a gray sweater, and a black blazer.

“What are you gonna do?” Jaskier asks.

Merlin looks up at him, “Question is, what are _we_ gonna do? Gods know who’s in O’Dimm’s pocket and who’s not. We have no choice. We’re gonna have to deal with this ourselves.” Jaskier and Geralt glance at each other and Merlin nods her head, “follow me.”

They follow her at a jog through the hangar over to a white jet plane, boarding it quickly. Merlin sits in the pilot’s seat and presses a few buttons, “take a seat back there, I’ll get us in the air.”

Jaskier does as he’s told and Geralt sits across from him, despite the multiple open seats on the private plane. They sit silently as Merlin drives the plane to the flight deck, the hanger splitting overhead and the turbines turning so the aircraft can lift straight up out of the ground. Jaskier watches as the Kingsman manor grows smaller and smaller, even the K in the grass disappearing as they climb high above the clouds.

“I’m sorry about Galahad,” Geralt says softly, breaking the silence eventually. Jaskier blinks and looks away from the dark landscape below them to turn his eyes on to Geralt.

“Oh, uh, yeah. Thanks.”

Geralt nods and speaks again after another brief silence, “He was nice, whenever I spoke with him.”

Jaskier hums in agreement before suddenly saying, “Listen, can we… can we not talk about this right now? I know you’re trying to be a good friend-”

“Oh, yeah, of course-”

“-and it means a lot to me, really-”

“-I didn’t mean to… I mean-”

“-but I think if I think too much about it right now-”

“-I completely understand, Jaskier, really-”

“-I’ll start crying, and I don’t want to spend my first real spy mission with a splotchy face. ‘Cause I’ll warn you, I’m a real ugly crier.”

They look at each other for a moment before bursting into smothered laughter, stifling it with their hands as the gravity of the situation and the nerves of their duties get to them. Jaskier reaches out and takes Geralt’s hand in his, giving it a squeeze.

“I mean it. I appreciate it, Geralt.” And then, because he can’t stand things being serious for too long or he _will_ cry, “but I’m serious about the ugly crying. Fuck’s sake, I get all snotty and my eyes swell up like damn weather balloons and I turn as red as a patchwork quilt made by a colorblind gramma.”

Geralt laughs again, “What kind of analogy even _was_ that?”

“Hell if I know. But it made you laugh, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess it did.”

He smiles and squeezes Jaskier’s hand back. Geralt looks down at their fingers before slowly intertwining them, rubbing his thumb over the back of Jaskier’s hand. Each sharp knuckle, scarred from his years of rough living, each freckle that dots his skin, each crease and wrinkle and stain Geralt touches and Jaskier watches him with bated breath. He’s not quite sure what his friend is doing, and his instincts say to pull away, to make Geralt stop, but it also feels nice. Nicer than anything’s felt in a long time.

“Jaskier,” Geralt starts quietly, “I… we got interrupted, the last time, but I wanted to tell you that I-”

He surges forward and covers Geralt’s mouth with his other hand, “Tell me after. After we both survive and we’re drinking martinis and celebrating being gentleman spies who saved the world, yeah?”

Geralt looks up, honey gold eyes meeting bright shining blue, and nods softly.

“Good,” Jaskier smiles and stands, reluctantly removing his hand from Geralt’s warm grasp, “Now, I’ve gotta use the loo so I’ll be right back.”

He heads to the back of the plane and uses the toilet. Jaskier’s wiping the rest of the dampness from washing his hands on his trousers when he spots an enormous and bulky bag in the space behind the restroom. Curious, he tries to lift it and finds that it’s incredibly heavy, maybe a hundred pounds, and it’s with a grunt that he lugs it out to the center of the plane.

Geralt turns around and raises an eyebrow, standing up and walking over to help him set it down and unzip the bag. Inside are boxy, metal components that are painted a bright yellow. Jaskier pulls out the top one and it has a black joystick on the end of it. He frowns as he wiggles it in intrigue, “What the fuck is this?”

“I have no idea.”

Merlin comes out of the cockpit to investigate and raises her eyebrows, “What you’re playing with is a prototype personal trans-atmospheric vehicle. It was developed as part of Radovid’s _Star Wars_ project. It’s pretty basic, but… it should still work.” She sits down at a bay of computers, spinning the chair so she can face them, “We’re going to take out one of O’Dimm’s satellites.”

Jaskier lowers the prototype part as he listens to Merlin, his shoulders pulling back slightly with the confirmation of his help. Even though he blew it. Even though he doesn’t belong and didn’t pass all the tests, Merlin and Geralt are trusting him to help take down Gaunter O’Dimm. And Jaskier won’t let them down. He won’t let Vesemir’s work be in vain.

“We’re going to break the chain, stop the signal. It’ll take him a couple of hours to reroute it, which buys us enough time for you,” Merlin looks at Jaskier, “to get me into O’Dimm’s mainframe so I can shut it down.” Jaskier nods, taking a shaking breath as he looks down at the prototype in his hands. 

“Lancelot,” Merlin turns to Geralt, “you’re going to be using it. Get into your halo suit.” Geralt goes pale but nods once, standing up and going into the back to change. 

Merlin starts inspecting the implant that Jaskier pulled from Arthur’s neck beneath a magnifying glass, turning it over with tweezers, “It seems the implant can emit some kind of counter signal to ensure the wearer remains unaffected by the waves from the SIM cards.”

“The waves that turn everyone into a psycho killer,” Jaskier confirms.

“Quite. But what he probably didn’t tell anyone is it can also superheat their soft tissue at his command. O’Dimm selected his chosen few to get the countdown warning, but he had to be sure they didn’t blab to the wrong people beforehand.”

“How does this help us right now?”

Merlin pauses, lowering the implant as she sits up with a frown, “It doesn’t.” She gets up and heads back into the cockpit, calling out, “Geralt! Here we go!”

Geralt comes out of the back room, dressed in his black flight suit with the embroidered Kingsman K. It’s now accented with his name beneath it, and he has his helmet under his arm. He still looks a bit pale, but he’s looking determined as well.

“You alright?” Jaskier asks him and Geralt nods, giving him a wan smile.

“Still don’t like heights.”

“Think you can like heights long enough to stop the bad guy?”

“No,” Geralt shakes his head, “But I’ll do it anyway.”

* * *

Merlin has landed them somewhere in the Amell Mountains and constructed the Trans-Atmospheric Vehicle, the yellow body standing out starkly against the white snow surrounding them. Attached with wires at the shoulders of the vehicle, two enormous silver balloons are filling with helium, a hose running back to the plane. Jaskier triple checks the connections of the balloons and Geralt’s harness, the taller man already strapped into the vehicle with his helmet secured on his head. 

“The higher you go, the more the balloons will expand,” Merlin warns him, “When you reach the edge of the atmosphere, they’ll explode. You need to deploy your missile just before that, okay?”

Geralt nods, “The edge of the atmosphere.”

“Once you’ve deployed, you’ll need to release for descent. Fast. Good luck.” Merlin rubs her hands together to warm them, her coat not nearly thick enough for the harsh winter of the northern mountains. Geralt glances up at the balloons above him, watching the shimmery fabric waver and flap in the breeze, and Merlin walks back to the plane.

Jaskier walks over, his hands deep in his leather jacket pockets as he shivers but he pulls them out when Geralt lets go of the joysticks to grab his hands. “You can do this, okay?”

“Yeah,” Geralt nods, sounding a bit breathless. 

“Jaskier, come on! Time is not our friend,” Merlin calls from the stairs of the plane and Jaskier glances over before leaning forward and pressing his lips to Geralt’s helmet.

Geralt chuckles nervously, “You better give me a real one once this is all over.” The prototype lifts off the ground as enough helium fills the balloons, the hose falling away.

“I promise.” He squeezes Geralt’s hands and holds on as long as he can until Geralt is higher than Jaskier can reach anymore, their fingers slipping free. Jaskier hurries up the steps of the plane but stops in the open doorway, raising his hand in farewell to Geralt and watching until the door closes. He just hopes he’ll get to make good on his promise.

Geralt watches the plane take off again, his anxious breathing sounding loud in his helmet, and soon he is alone in the vast blue sky.

* * *

On board the plane, which is at a cruising altitude and on autopilot, Merlin goes into a closet and removes a suit-case. It’s very fine, with rich stitching and creamy, auburn leather, and she handles it with care, “You’re getting in on Arthur’s invitation. So, you’re gonna need to blend in.”

“I’m supposed to be _Arthur_?”

“His invitation’s in his phone,” she informs him, reaching over and plucking Arthur’s phone off of her station, “Give them this, and give them his real name: Irion Stregobor.”

Jaskier’s brows furrow, “What about you?”

“I’m your pilot. I’m gonna say here.”

He hums and then glances down at the case, “Is that gonna fit me?”

“A bespoke suit,” Merlin hands him the leather case, “always fits. Just be grateful Vesemir had it made for you. Get dressed.”

Jaskier stands up, taking the case with him into the back room and changing. He removes his leather jacket. His tee shirt, his jeans, his boots. And he puts on a white button down. Black trousers. A red-striped, navy tie and a pin-striped jacket. He ties the laces on his oxfords and slides a signet ring onto his right hand. Gels his hair and straps on his watch. Finally, he slides on the thick-rimmed glasses that are the mark of a Kingsman and straightens up, looking in the mirror at his reflection.

_“Do you know what I see?”_

_“Someone who wants to know what the fuck is going on_.”

He wishes Vesemir could see him now, because Jaskier knows what he sees. He sees a Kingsman agent. He sees a man with direction, with a purpose. Who wants to, and _will_ , do good in his life. Because he’s been given an opportunity, and he won’t squander it this time. Because he’s going to save the world.

He decides to test out the glasses, patching himself into Geralt’s radio, “G? It’s me. How’s the view?”

Back over the Amell Mountains, Geralt floats 30,000 feet over the Earth and is still climbing. Clouds obscure his vision and the wind nips at him, even through his thick halo suit. He glances down at the faint glimpse of mountains he can see through the fog before he answers, “Hideous.”

“Mine’s pretty sweet,” Jaskier says with a smile, still looking at his reflection, “They made you one of these suits yet?”

The radio fizzes before Geralt replies, “ _No, not yet_.”

“You’ve got something to look forward to then. We’re coming up on O’Dimm’s base. Gotta go. Good luck.”

“ _You too, Jask._ ”

Jaskier steps out of the back room and Merlin looks up at him, raising her eyebrows in approval, “Looking good, Jaskier.”

He smiles and nods his head to the side, standing tall and proud, “Feeling good, Merlin.”

* * *

**[Smocze Mountains - O’Dimm’s Bunker]**

The atmosphere in the bunker is quiet and grim, celebrities and politicians and artisans and everyone in between mingling quietly, with a smothering air of foreboding settled over them all. Their trepidation at what is about to transpire covers them like a blanket, keeping their voices lowered and their movements small. Gaunter watches with a frown from the console room, lounging in his chair with his feet propped up on his desk.

“What the fuck’s wrong with them?”

Fringilla raises her eyebrows slightly, leaning on the opposite side of the desk with one hand on her hip. “I don’t know,” she shrugs, “Could have something to do with the mass genocide.”

“Give me the mic,” Gaunter holds his hand out, and Fringilla passes him a microphone. “Hey-oh! Everybody, listen up! Hello, hello! What the fuck’s wrong with you people?” He stands up to look out the floor to ceiling windows that overlook the bunker, “I just want to remind you that today is a day of celebration. We must put aside all thoughts of death, and focus on birth. The birth of a new age. 

“We mustn’t mourn those who give their lives today. We should honor their sacrifice, and their roles in saving the human race. We must put aside doubt and guilt. _You_ are the chosen people!” Gaunter smiles and gestures grandly, all faces turned up to look at him, “When folks tell their kids the story of Noah’s Ark, is _Noah_ the bad guy?”

He waits and the people below shake their heads, chorusing, “No!”

“Is Melitele the bad guy?”

“No!”

“How about the animals marching two-by-two?”

“No!”

“Of course not!” Gaunter throws his hands up with a laugh, “Yeah, that’s it! Let’s turn those frowns upside-down. Eat! Drink! And _party_!” The bunker refugees cheer and clap for him and he grins down, drunk on his power. 

“And I will see you _all_ in the new age!”


	12. XI

**[Smocze Mountains - O’Dimm’s Bunker]**

Jaskier stands at Merlin’s shoulder in the cockpit, his hand resting on her chair, as he watches them approach the huge mouth of an enormous cavern set into the side of the mountain. Anti-aircraft artillery shifts at the sides of the entrance to aim at their approaching plane, and Jaskier eyes it nervously while Merlin speaks to Control.

“This is November-2-4-7-Charlie-Kilo requesting permission to land.”

There’s a tense pause as the artillery remains on them. They then lower and Jaskier can faintly hear the Control responder in Merlin’s radio, “Permission is granted.” 

As they near the mountain, their radar picks up on hostiles inside, showing the incredible number and their silhouettes on the display of Jaskier’s glasses. He feels his stomach drop as he lets out a startled, “ _Fuck_ me.”

Merlin nods in agreement with a hum, her face tense with anticipation as she flies them into the cave mouth, landing on the runway with a screeching of tires and the whining of the plane’s engines. Air roars around the aircraft as the slats rise and the flaps lower on the wings, working in tandem with the brakes to slow the plane down, and Jaskier exits the cockpit to wait in the cabin.

“Jaskier,” Merlin calls out, parking the plane atop a painted plus symbol, “we’re on.” She removes her headset and enters the cabin, unlatching the door and lowering it. Standing outside is O’Dimm’s unnamed assistant, the one they saw on his announcement, and two guards dressed in white tactical snow gear.

Jaskier stands at the head of the stairs, Merlin behind him as she peers out of the plane dressed in a pilot’s uniform. Once the steps have lowered fully, he places his hands on the railing and walks down with his back straight, nose turned up, and a vaguely disinterested expression as he looks around. He approaches the assistant, reaching into his coat pocket to withdraw Arthur’s phone, and the guards lift their weapons a little to be more imposing and ready in the event of an attack.

“Irion Stregobor,” Jaskier introduces himself, handing over the phone.

The assistant looks at it and smiles pleasantly, “Mr. Stregobor, welcome. I’m sure you’ve adhered to Gaunter’s strict no-weapons policy, but if you don’t object…” she lifts a metal detecting wand in her other hand, already reaching out to wave it over him. 

“Of course.”

Jaskier spreads his arms for her, averting his eyes with that same air of disinterest as he waits for her to finish checking him for firearms. She thanks him and after a moment, continues talking.

“Do you have any luggage?”

He looks at her for a moment before leisurely turning to Merlin, who stands with her hands clasped behind her in the door of the plane, “Congratulations, Madeleine, you’ve just graduated from my pilot to my valet.” He makes sure his words are accented with a posh, north Keracki inflection instead of his usual rough articulation.

Merlin’s lips twist with displeasure as she mutters, “You cheeky…”

“Understood?” Jaskier asks with a wink, “Good.”

The assistant hands him his phone back and then gestures for him to follow her as she leads him through a side tunnel, winding deeper into the bunker. Behind them, the plane lowers on a rotating platform to join the aircraft of all the other VIPs, Merlin going down into the depths of the bunker with it. The tunnels Jaskier walks along with the assistant are lined with metal doors built into the stone walls, and there are pounds and screams against them from the other sides.

He frowns slightly and looks to the side, observing the keypad lock and window latches on each silver door. His earpiece fizzes before Merlin’s voice filters into his ear, “ _Jaskier, find a laptop, get me online. The clock is ticking.”_

Jaskier doesn’t reply but he looks forward again, the tunnel opening up into a large room with white topped bars and silver decorations. Upon the walls are large screens with the O’Dimm Corporation logo on them and the countdown timer beneath it, reading 00:18:34. People in designer clothing are chattering and drinking, flutes of champagne floating around on the trays of servers and bowls of snacks and plates of hors d'oeuvres are on the tables. Around the edge of the cavern is a raised platform with more tables, in a booth format, set into the walls and at the far end of the room, above the party-goers below, is a glass-walled booth, within which Jaskier can see Gaunter O’Dimm and his partner, Fringilla.

_“And remember: try to blend in.”_

“Would sir care for a drink?” A server walks up to them, stopping Jaskier just inside the door. The assistant smiles and walks away, having delivered him to the appropriate destination.

Jaskier gives the server a polite smile, “Martini. Gin, not vodka, obviously. Stirred for ten seconds while glancing at an unopened bottle of vermouth. Thank you.” The server nods and walks off to fill his obtuse request and Jaskier has to fight a grin. 

He then turns and walks casually through the crowd, looking up at the booth curiously, “Merlin, are you clocking this?”

_“Yes, I am. Stay focused.”_

* * *

_“Lancelot, you’re doing great. Not much further to go.”_

Geralt startles a little at Merlin’s voice suddenly cracking over his radio, his hands gripping the joysticks tighter and his heart stuttering in surprise on top of his ratcheting anxiety. He’s arcing high above the planet, able to see the curvature of the atmosphere itself in the hazy glow it emits from the sun’s rays. The wires of the balloons twang and whistle with every shift of his weight, so he’s been petrified into one spot that makes his muscles scream for the past half hour.

“Yes, Merlin,” Geralt replies. And he’s glad that his voice is steady as he looks above him at the balloons, which have expanded with his rising altitude, the silver fabric no longer wrinkled with slack as he creeps closer to the edge of the thermosphere.

* * *

_“Jaskier, get me online. Now.”_

Jaskier takes his requested martini from the server and he sips it as he looks around, searching the VIPs for a computer. He spots someone at one of the upper-story tables with a laptop open in front of them and hums as he starts walking to the stairs, “Yep, I’m on it.”

He quickly ascends the stairs, making his way over to the booth and putting on a mask of haughty intrigue as he gazes upon the face of the Verden Prime Minister. “Society’s dead, long live society,” Jaskier opens with, and the clacking of the Prime MInister’s keyboard slows to a stop as Kistrin looks up at him.

He gives a laugh and nods, “Amen to that.” He then extends his hand, “I’m Kistrin Ervyll.”

Jaskier clasps his hand and gives it a firm shake, “Irion Stregobor.” He then tilts his head, furrowing his brow, “How’d you get online? I couldn’t.”

“Oh, well, it’s a closed network, you see,” PM Ervyll glances at his computer, “pre-authorized connections only.”

“Ah. Do you have the correct time? I think I’m still on my last time zone.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Let’s see now,” Kistrin nods and lifts his wrist, pushing his cuff back to look at his watch. Jaskier raises his own wrist, twisting the face of his timepiece and shooting a tiny tranquilizer out of it into the Prime MInister’s neck.

Kistrin grabs his neck, but he’s out cold before he can say anything, and Jaskier quickly pushes him aside, the man slumping over in the booth as Jaskier sits down at the laptop. He glances around to make sure no one saw what just transpired and then gets to work on patching Merlin into the network.

* * *

_“Lancelot, you’re approaching your altitude limit. Those balloons won’t last much longer.”_

Geralt glances up at the fattened balloons again, his nerves spiking with the thought of them bursting. It’s only through sheer force of will that he doesn’t start hyperventilating as he looks at his altitude reader: 127,889 feet and still counting. He’s almost to the top of the exosphere now, and it would be incredible to see space from this vantage point if he weren’t so terrified of the distance between himself and the ground.

_“Prepare to engage missiles.”_

The altitude meter turns red as he reaches the edge of the atmosphere, beeping warningly at him to let him know he’s running low on time. Geralt flexes his fingers on the missile joystick, avoiding the deploy button for now, and a screen unfolds from the arm of the TAV, showing him the sight of the missile launcher that emerges over his shoulder. The screen zooms in on the targeted satellite and Geralt gently teases the joystick so that the spacecraft is in his crosshairs.

“I’ve got a fix on the satellite,” Geralt says when the missile locks on, the display turning from green to red.

_“Lancelot, good luck. Firing in three… two…”_

One of the balloons bursts. 

Exploding into fine shreds of silver fabric that rains down around Geralt. The weight of the TAV is off-centered now, and he swings precariously beneath the remaining balloon with a scream. His targeted sight is ripped from the satellite, disengaging from its locked-on status.

 _“Oh, shit,”_ Merlin mutters, distracted, and it sounds like something might be going wrong on Jaskier’s end, since the curse wasn’t directed at Geralt’s predicament, _“Lancelot, hurry up and fire! That other balloon is gonna blow!”_

Geralt gasps, focusing on the display as he realigns the crosshairs of the missile, “Yes, Merlin, I’ve nearly got it. Give me a second!”

Several alarms are beeping and flashing at him, warning him of the unbalance of the TAV. The dangerously high altitude. The searching of the lock-on mechanism. It’s very nearly overwhelming. His heart is pounding in his throat and his eyes feel tight and dry as he twitches the joystick. 

“Got it!” The missile locks on and he fires immediately, pressing the button on the joystick. The missile shoots off with a burst of light out of its tail. Geralt doesn’t get to watch it soar towards its destination, though.

The other balloon bursts.

He plummets.

The TAV is heavy and, combined with his weight, gravity pulls him down faster than even when he was skydiving with Jaskier. Air rushes by him and he screams in terror, his hands clamping down on the joysticks. The straps of the harness dig into his shoulders and he feels the firm surface of his parachute against his back.

His parachute!

Right, he needs to unhook himself quickly before he picks up too much velocity. Geralt forces himself to let go of the joysticks, his hands scrabbling for the buckles that Jaskier so carefully checked. He could even say tenderly, but now isn’t the time for those thoughts. He grunts as the pressure of the air becomes heavier and he’s starting to feel hot from hurtling through the atmosphere.

 _“Lancelot, release_ now _!”_

The buckles unclick and Geralt shoves himself away from the TAV, diving freely towards the earth below. He tumbles, head over heels, and he can’t pull his parachute until he’s stabilized. His breaths come in panicked gasps and pants, groaning and shouting with each exhale. He pinwheels his arms and kicks his legs, doing anything he can to right himself. 

He spins faster through the air, careening wildly and ending up revolving horizontally to the planet below, “Aah! Flat spin!” A flat spin is dangerous. A flat spin can kill him. 

He screams, relaxing his body fully to try and catch the air even as his panic makes him want to curl up. He can’t lose his sense of orientation. If the spin picks up too much momentum, he’ll lose sight of which way is up or down and he won’t be able to deploy his parachute.

Geralt’s revolutions slow just enough for him to be able to time them. He twists in the air so that his stomach faces the earth, fighting the tunnel his rotations create. He reaches behind him. Yanks the cord.

His parachute deploys, flapping as it unfolds. Geralt grunts as his harness pulls at him, the chute catching the air and abruptly halting his descent. He gasps for breath, grabbing the brake handles of the parachute, and laughs in startling relief as he slowly floats down to the mountains below.

* * *

Meanwhile, Jaskier plugs a USB drive into the laptop, angling the computer screen so that no passersby can see it, and launching the program on the driver. He watches as a code window opens and green characters scroll across the screen rapidly, some of it turning white as Merlin’s program alters it to allow her access.

_“Jaskier, I’m in. Get your ass back to the plane, now.”_

“On my way.” Jaskier closes the laptop and unplugs the USB. He’s sitting back to get up when he feels something cold and metal press against his throat, just beneath his jaw. He freezes, looking down at the long knife to his jugular, and raises his hands slowly.

“Nice and slow,” Valdo’s voice says quietly and Jaskier snarls.

“The fuck are you doing here?”

Valdo grips the shoulder of Jaskier’s suit, lowering his face to be beside Jaskiers. “Well, my family were invited, obviously. Now, get the fuck up. Slowly.” Valdo pulls Jaskier to his feet and out of the booth, moving him to the railing at the edge of the upper platform.

Merlin, watching this through Jaskier’s glasses, curses, _“Oh, shit.”_

“O’Dimm!” Valdo shouts, restraining Jaskier with the knife and the hand twisted in the back of his suit jacket, “I’ve caught a fucking spy!”

In the booth, Gaunter gets up with a frown, looking through the glass and then stumbling forward in shock, “Oh shit, it’s that young valet!”

Jaskier grabs Valdo’s arm and touches the contact on his signet ring with his thumb, pressing the face of the ring to Valdo’s forehead. Valdo stiffens, the electricity coursing through him. Jaskier steps out of his grip, watching Valdo’s eyes flutter, and then punches him in the nose. Valdo drops to the ground and Gaunter has his hands on the frame of a glass pane.

“Son of a _bitch!”_

Jaskier leaps over the railing, jumping down to the ground below, and people gasp as they move out of his way. He sprints through the crowd, heading for the tunnel he came by. He shoves anyone who doesn’t move fast enough, knocking people out of his way. He needs to get back to the plane so they can make their escape.

“Oh, shit,” Gaunter swears, watching Jaskier run through the crowd, “Sound the alarm!” Fringilla taps on the display of the desk quickly, a confirmation beep sounding a moment later.

“I’m not taking any chances,” he sits down, looking up at Fringilla, “Okay, you send out the two-minute warning. I’m starting the override.” He pulls up a virtual keyboard and starts typing on it, inputting his override codes, “Alright, let’s do this.” Fringilla works opposite him on a keyboard of her own, and the countdown timer switches from 00:16:21 to 00:02:00.

 _“Countdown initiated,”_ an automated female voice echoes through the bunker.

Jaskier hurtles through the tunnel, flying past the metal doors. His arms pump and his heart races and he regulates his breathing through his nose as he sprints. He slows to look down a side tunnel, two guards in white standing at the end of it. They start firing at him and he jumps forward again, ducking his head and dashing away.

He grabs the frame of an open door, swinging through it and throwing the metal door shut behind him. Luckily, it’s not a room, but another hallway. He hears the bullets of automatic gunfire ricochet off the door as he runs towards a series of junctions.

More guards in white appear. Jaskier dives down a side hall to avoid their bullets. He’s not sure where he’s going now, they didn’t have the blueprints to the bunker before arriving, so he just races through the hall and waits for instruction.

_“Jaskier, take a left.”_

Merlin’s voice is a gods-send in his ear and Jaskier skids across the floor as he turns suddenly. _“Two guards, up ahead.”_ She must have access to the security cameras then, and he prepares to engage with hostiles.

They shoot at him immediately. Jaskier ducks to the ground, dropping to one knee and bracing his hand against the floor. He kicks the feet out from under the front guard and then uses the guard’s back as a springboard. He darts forward, beneath the outstretched arm of the second guard. 

Jaskier grabs the wrist of the guard and turns, bracing his shoulder beneath the guard’s armpit. He wrestles the gun from the guard’s hand just as three more guards run around the corner. With unerring accuracy, Jaskier fires two rounds into the first one. The second and third guards shoot at him simultaneously.

He bends his knees and then launches himself into an aerial, pulling the guard in his grip with him to use as a shield. He fires twice while flipping, each bullet finding a home in the skulls of the guards. Jaskier releases the guard as he lands and turns on his heel, bolting through the tunnels once more.

_“Jaskier, straight ahead, then right.”_

A guard appears before him and he shoots the man immediately, jumping over the corpse. _“There’s two more.”_ Just as Merlin says, two more guards turn the corner ahead of him. Jaskier shoots one in the stomach, dropping to his knees. He slides across the smooth floor and hooks an arm through the guard’s legs, wrapping it around the guard’s thigh. He rolls with the guard over his shoulder, the body shielding him for a moment, until he rolls to one knee. 

More guards have appeared behind him and he aims, firing once. Twice. Three times. His gun is sure to be getting low on ammunition soon, so he needs to make every bullet count. 

“Alright, everybody on your feet!” Gaunter announces into the microphone, his voice echoing through the halls, “Countdown to G-Day! Welcome in the new age!”

Jaskier runs faster. Two more shots. Two more guards downed. One behind him. He fires. Three to his left. He pushes his legs to move faster. One ahead of him. He shoots. Another ahead of him. He shoots again. 

Jaskier turns into a large junction and Merlin’s voice directs him, _“Jaskier, next left, down the narrow tunnel!”_

He turns and there are five guards in this hall that’s barely wider than his shoulders. He lifts his gun and shoots four times, downing the first four guards. Jaskier jumps up, kicking off the left wall over to the right, giving himself additional height. He slams the final guard to the ground, landing with a knee on the man’s chest.

“Here we go!” O’Dimm’s voice echoes, “Ten! Nine!”

Another guard turns the corner and Jaskier sprints at him, full tilt. Before the guard can fire, he’s pulling the guard’s head down and flipping over the guard’s shoulder, shooting behind him as he does so. He lands and rolls forward, jumping up into a guard’s arm. He tucks it under his own and hauls the guard over his shoulder, falling onto his back with him.

“Eight! Seven!”

On the ground, Jaskier pushes up using the crown of his head, arching his body to shoot back the way he came. He fires twice. 

Jaskier gets up again and keeps running.

“Six! Five!”

Another two guards. Another two shots.

“Four! Three!”

He’s out of ammo. He grabs a new gun from one of the downed guards.

“Two! One!”

Gaunter puts his hand against the biometric scanner, watching the system load and indicating the linking of satellites. Just as the circle is about to close, the display turns red and an error message appears with a loud buzzing. “It’s not working! It’s supposed to be working! What the fuck!” He looks up at Fringilla who stammers in confusion, her eyes wide.

 _“Nice! Well done, both of you!”_ Merlin cheers.

Jaskier grins, jogging forward with his new gun. “Yes! _Well done_ , G. Good man!”

“We’ve lost one of our satellites,” Fringilla informs Gaunter, her fingers flying across her keyboard.

Merlin gets up from her station, the system analysis nearly complete and no more guards visible immediately in Jaskier’s path. Sans the ones directly at the entrance of the tunnel. She had raised her own aircraft platform a while ago and lowered the stairs before there were any guards in the hangar at all, so none have attempted to come aboard just yet. She gets a large rifle from the onboard armory, hiding it behind herself as she leans out of the doorway to speak to the four armed guards.

“What’s going on?” She raises her eyebrows, putting on an air of perfect innocence, “Is there a problem?” She eyes their firearms with a faux-wary expression, “Come on, now. There’s no need for guns, I’m just a pilot.”

Jaskier comes running around the corner at the end of the tunnel, spotting the guards and raising his own stolen weapon. He pulls the trigger as the four guards turn and it clicks uselessly. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses before shouting, “Merlin!”

Merlin raises her rifle and quickly shoots the exposed backs of the four guards, Jaskier turning away as a precaution against stray bullets. “Get in here!” She shouts to him and he sprints to the plane. Another guard turns the corner behind him and Merlin raises her gun again, shooting the guard quickly, “Come on!” Jaskier leaps into the plane, taking the six steps two at a time, and the door shuts behind him.

Gasping and panting, Jaskier collapses into one of the plush chairs and raises his hand to gesture dramatically, “Let’s get the _fuck_ out of here.”

“We can’t.”

Jaskier looks up at her in disbelief, “What?”

“I can’t get into O’Dimm’s machine,” she says grimly, “He’s got biometric security. You’re gonna have to get in there and make sure his hand never touches that desk.”

“Are you taking the fucking piss?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Jaskier heaves a sigh before getting back to his feet, gesturing to Merlin’s gun, “Let’s have that then.”

“Uh-uh,” she holds it away from him, lifting a hand in warning, “This is mine. I’ll show you yours.”

Merlin leads him to the back of the plane, opening the door to the back room and stepping inside. Jaskier follows and Merlin tilts a framed picture of a sailboat, a hidden compartment opening with a soft hiss. Behind it is a weapons rack, with knives, pistols, rifles, extra glasses, and…

Jaskier reaches out, lifting an umbrella off of the wall.


	13. XII

Gaunter looks down at his desk display, frowning at the blinking satellite symbol that’s breaking his perfect chain. This just won’t do. He needs satellites all around the globe if he wants any chance of this working, it’s just too far a distance for the signal to reach without one of them.

“How long to re-link the satellite chain?” He asks Fringilla angrily.

She looks frazzled as she answers quickly, “It’ll take an hour. Maybe two.”

“Bullshit! Just bring these two closer together,” he points to a satellite that hangs outside of his circle.

“But that’s not _yours_.”

Gaunter scowls and leans over, zooming in on the satellite off to the side. The display brings up a diagram of it with its schematics, labeling it as belonging to Cintra. “G-Glass,” he says to his watch, lifting it to his chin, “call D-Man.” The watch beeps a few times before the call connects and Gaunter rocks back.

“D! It’s G. Listen, man, I got a little hiccup on this end and I need to piggyback. One of my satellites just went down, but it’s right next to one of Cintra’s. Think you can… you read my mind.” He grins in relief, placing his free hand on his hip, “How long before you can make that happen?”

* * *

The door to the plane opens and both Merlin and Jaskier are armed and waiting, doing a cursory sweep of the empty hanger. With no additional guards waiting for them, Merling glances at Jaskier and nods her head towards the tunnel, “Go.”

Jaskier nods and jumps down the stairs, taking off at a sprint with the umbrella clutched tightly in his hand. He can’t help but feel like he’s already done all this before, and it’s with a small amount of exasperation that he dashes through the tunnels, following the trail of bodies he left behind during his escape.

 _“Oh, shit,”_ Merlin curses and Jaskier doesn’t slow but his head perks up slightly to focus, _“Jaskier, O’Dimm’s using someone else’s satellite. He’s going to reconnect the chain. It’s going to take him_ no time _at all. It’s already at 20 percent!”_

Merlin sees movement out of the corner of her eye and gets up, going into the cockpit to look out the front window. Jogging down the runway is a veritable _platoon_ of white clad guards. They run right past the plane and turn into the same tunnel Jaskier just disappeared down and Merlin frowns anxiously.

_“Jaskier, it seems O’Dimm’s got a present for you. Get a move on!”_

Jaskier’s feet slide across the floor as he makes a hard turn, touching his fingers to the ground to steady himself and then sprinting forward again. The heels of his oxfords thump on the smooth concrete and his heart is pounding again, sweat dripping down his temple. He’s glad he gelled his hair back, or else it would be in his eyes from the amount of running he’s been doing.

He turns a corner, suddenly faced with ten armed guards, and lifts the umbrella. Jaskier opens it in front of him and keeps moving forward as bullets deflect off the canopy. The inside of the umbrella canopy is a screen, allowing him to see through his shield as he twists the handle ring and a trigger springs out. He fires, and the concussive round knocks back the guard closest to him, taking out two others with him.

Jaskier swings the umbrella to the side to aim at a guard on the edge of the group, firing again. The guard’s knees explode and he’s thrown back into the wall, knocking down one other. Jaskier crouches down behind the canopy, hiding fully behind the shield as automatic weapons continue to discharge. From around the corner, at the end of the hall, comes a new guard carrying a heavy sniper rifle.

The guard pulls back on the bolt to lock and a bullet loads into the chamber before he fires. The heavy round rips right through the canopy from the short range and Jaskier jerks out of the way. He turns back to look at the jagged hole in the umbrella in startled shock, just as the guard locks and fires again. He jerks out of the way again, another hole tearing open. A third round rips through the canopy. 

Jaskier backs up a few feet and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a gold-plated lighter. He glances down as he flicks it open, ensuring that the top starts flashing red and beeping, before hurling it over his shield and ducking back down again. The grenade explodes, the blast knocking Jaskier back onto his ass and killing the remaining guards.

His umbrella is ruined, completely shredded by the grenade, and he looks at it mournfully as he gets to his feet again. Jaskier is tired, his body is aching from running and diving and fighting, but he isn’t done yet. He still has a mission to complete.

Jaskier closes the umbrella and tosses it aside, taking a breath and continuing to run through the halls. He finds the door that he had sprinted through earlier and throws it open, exiting into the hall filled with metal doors set into the wall. He dashes down it, shooting two guards with a pistol he brought. But more guards flood around the corner, more than he can take care of with his one little gun. They fire at him and Jaskier throws an arm over his face, feeling his suit catch some of the bullets and the bruises they’ll leave behind as he tries to turn back. To find another way. 

To his dismay, there’s even more guards behind him, their guns raised as well as they begin to fire. Jaskier crowds back against one of the metal doors, the frame around it extending enough to protect him for now as he catches his breath. The shooting stops as the guards fill the hall on both ends, lining up to kill him the moment he pokes his head out again.

_“Merlin, I’m fucked.”_

Jaskier’s voice is nearly defeated in her headset as she peers out of the cockpit of the plane. More guards have arrived in the hangar, wheeling with them a large anti-aircraft launcher. She sighs grimly, “As am I."

“They’re coming at me from both sides,” Jaskier presses himself further back against the door, praying that he’s not visible to the guards, “I’m out of options.” He takes a few shaking breaths as he thinks, closing his eyes and then tapping his glasses to patch into Geralt’s radio. “Geralt? Geralt, I need a favor.”

_“What? What’s happening, are you alright?”_

“Call my mum,” Jaskier pleads, “Tell her to lock herself away from Roben. And the baby. And… and tell her I love her.”

_“Jaskier!”_

_“Oh, for fuck’s sake,”_ Merlin says softly, sounding distracted. Jaskier turns his head to the side, his ear pressing against the cold metal of the door. He’s almost glad he’s going to die before the SIM card signal starts, before he can go berserk without any sort of agency. He’s almost glad that he’s here, instead of with his mother and Ciri, he wouldn’t want them to see him like that. And it’s not like he has something to not be affected by the signal with…

“Merlin,” Jaskier says suddenly, “remember those implants you said were of no use to us? Any chance you can turn them on?”

Merlin stiffens as Jaskier’s idea takes hold in her mind before turning and hurrying back to her station, sitting down in her seat. “Alright. My turn to play O’Dimm,” she mutters as she types quickly, pulling up lines of code in the security system.

“Oh, oh no,” Gaunter gasps, his eyes wide as he looks at the display of his desk. A large SECURITY BREACH warning spread across it, “What the fuck is he doing?”

On Merlin’s monitor, a red window pops up that says ACTIVATE SECURITY IMPLANTS? YES/NO. She smiles and wiggles her fingers, hitting the enter key, “Yes, please.”

Gaunter screams as a window on his display opens up: SECURITY IMPLANTS ACTIVATED. 

“ _NO!”_

He spins around, looking out of the glass of his booth in horror as the VIPs all start screaming, grabbing their necks. Their skin glows beneath their hands as their soft tissues superheat, and with a cacophonous _BOOM!_ their heads explode.

Blood splatters everywhere, brain matter scattering across the floor and the white bar tops turn a bright crimson. Blue goo flies from the explosions, staining the floor, the walls, the ceiling. Clothing becomes soaked and headless corpses drop to the ground, filling the bunker with the stench of copper and death.

Jaskier leans out slightly, gagging a little as he watches the heads of the guards explode all around him, their hats flying everywhere and their white tac gear turning red with their blood. That blue goo sticking to the top of the tunnel and the metal of the doors.

Merlin sighs in relief as she watches the same happen in the hangar, the anti-aircraft launcher disengaging without someone holding the key in position. “Oh, my gods!” She cries out with glee, “ _That_ is fucking spectacular!”

Jaskier grins and laughs in relief, “Merlin, you’re a _fucking_ genius!”

There’s a slam against the door he’s up against and Jaskier jumps away, startled. He turns to look at it, frowning in confusion as there’s more pounding and a male voice shouts, “Hey! What the fuck is happening out there?”

He reaches up and unlatches the window, the cover sliding open and revealing an older gentleman with large sequined sunglasses and blond hair. Jaskier’s eyebrows knit together in concerned bafflement, “Aren’t you Elton John?”

“Can you get me out?” Elton John asks immediately.

Jaskier thinks for a moment, “If I do, will you give me a kiss for my gramma? She’s always wanted to kiss Elton John.”

“If you get me out right now, I’ll give her a whole private concert.”

He grins and reaches for the handle, his fingers stopped by the whining of the loudspeakers and Gaunter O’Dimm’s furious voice, “You _motherfucker_. Did you really think I was stupid enough to implant one of those things in my own head?”

Jaskier turns away from the door, looking up and around at the hall as O’Dimm’s voice echoes through it, “What, are you fucking crazy? All those innocent people killed, and for what? You didn’t stop _shit!_ It’s _still_ happening!”

* * *

_“Yeah, fine, I’ve locked her in the loo, now what do you want me to do?”_

“As I said,” Geralt repeats patiently, speaking on a satellite phone with a long antenna that had been packed in his parachute bag, “Lock her in the bathroom and throw away the key.”

_“You’re fucking insane.”_

He growls in frustration, “Just do it.” He should have known that Jaskier’s mum would be just as stubborn as the man himself is. He paces back and forth through the snow, listening to shuffling and the jingle of metal against a tile floor.

_“Fine! Fine, I’ve kicked the key into the bathroom. Anything else? I’m not even sure why I’m listening to you.”_

“I _told_ you. I’m a friend of Jaskier’s and it’s incredibly important that you do this. Now get away from the bathroom.”

_“What?”_

“You heard me,” Geralt nearly snaps and he takes a breath to calm himself, “Please. Trust me, you don’t want to be anywhere near Ciri in a moment.”

* * *

_“Jaskier, the signal’s started! Get O’Dimm’s hand off that bloody desk_ now _!”_

Jaskier looks at Elton John, giving him a charming smile, “Sorry, sir, gotta go save the world.”

He reaches for the window latch, planning on closing it for the musician’s safety, when Elton John speaks quickly, “If you save the fucking world I’ll write your grandmother a bloody love declaration!”

Jaskier pauses and looks at him, “I’ll be right back. But also? She’s gay.”

“Oh, thank the gods.” He hears Elton John murmur as he closes and latches the window, memorizing which door the famed singer is behind, then turning to run down the hall. Elton John’s voice is muffled as he shouts, “Good luck!”

Jaskier stops by one of the corpses, picking up the man’s rifle and checking the chamber for ammunition. The clip is almost completely full, so he leaves his empty pistol behind and takes the automatic weapon with him as he sprints towards the main cavern. When he gets there, a disco ball has descended from the ceiling and shining dots of light all around while dance music plays and various pyrotechnics are going off.

The screens on the walls are showing live satellite footage from different places all over the world. Kerack, Beauclair, Rinde, Oxenfurt, Vengerberg, Blaviken. People are fighting and growling and shouting and screaming, ripping each other apart as they beat and pummel and eviscerate one another with their bare hands. It’s a bloodshed. It’s a massacre. It’s a butchering. 

It needs to be stopped.

Jaskier spots Gaunter and Fringilla in the glass booth and raises his gun, O’Dimm’s back to the room as he keeps his hand pressed to the table and Fringilla’s eyes glued on the screens with awed glee on her face. He pulls the trigger and the first bullets crack the thick glass. However, it doesn’t shatter and Fringilla spins and dives towards Gaunter, knocking him out of the way and his hand detaches from the table.

The music slows and stops as they fall to the ground and Jaskier continues firing to try and break the glass. _“You did it!”_ Merlin sounds surprised. He squints up at the booth, the glass panes fractured from his bullets as the gun runs out of ammunition.

“Merlin, how do I get up there?” He asks as he pulls an extra clip out of his pocket, having grabbed it on the way.

_“Keep shooting, I’ll find you a route.”_

“Understood.”

He clicks the new magazine into the rifle, locking it in place. As he does so, the glass shatters. Jaskier looks up to see Fringilla jump through the window, holding a pistol of her own. She fires at him and he lifts the rifle to block the bullets. When he lowers it to aim at her, she runs forward and kicks up. 

One of her blades slices through the barrel of the gun like its butter, cutting the muzzle of his firearm off just before his hand. Jaskier jumps back and she flips past him, rolling to her feet and kicking out sideways. He twists out of the way and looks down at the blade narrowly missing his face in confusion.

She runs around him again, jumping up and kicking forward. He blocks each kick with a forearm to her knees, stopping the blades from gutting him. She lands and kicks up at him and he crosses his forearms against the plastic part of her prosthetic. Fringilla pulls back and kicks higher, making him lean away to avoid the blade towards his throat.

She kicks in an arc that he dodges, then reverses the same kick she just did. He avoids it again by ducking and when he pops up again she twists around, sweeping his feet out from under him and knocking him backwards. Jaskier cries out in surprise as he slides across the floor, rolling over to spring to his feet again.

The music resumes suddenly, lights flashing and disco ball spinning. Jaskier looks up at the ceiling and gets to his feet, he and Fringilla circling each other warily in the center of the cavern. _“Jaskier!”_ Merlin shouts, _“Fucking get on with it!”_

He raises his fists and gets into a ready stance as Fringilla runs at him, kicking in a high arc that he ducks below. He turns around, using the momentum to throw a fist towards her, but she blocks it and ducks down. Her elbow goes into his ribs before she straightens up again, still holding his wrist, and punches him across the face. Jaskier grunts and yanks his hand away, taking a powerful swing at her.

She bends backwards and his fist sails harmlessly over her head. When she straightens up, she arcs forward, grabbing him around the waist. Her shoulder goes into his solar plexus and he has to dodge the blade she kicks up backwards.

Jaskier shoves her away and runs to the nearest table, knocking glasses off of it as he grabs a stainless steel vase. The flowers and water go flying out of it as he swings at her and she does another backbend to dodge. Fringilla slides to the floor and lifts her blades, crossing them to block his next swing with a small shower of sparks. She then gets up again and kicks sideways, Jaskier parrying her blade with the vase.

“Kill that motherfucker, he killed all our friends!” Gaunter shouts over his shoulder from the booth, his hand glued to the desk.

She kicks again and the collision with the vase knocks Jaskier off-balance, sending him to the floor. He scoots backwards, away from her, as she plants her hands on the ground and swings her blades around like she’s breakdancing. Fuck, this fight is not going well. She’s more skilled than he is, and his heart thrums in his throat as his wide eyes track her every move.

He keeps lifting the vase to block the blades when they get a bit too close, grunting and stumbling as he rises to his feet and she keeps pinwheeling. Jaskier takes a swing at her as he’s backed up to a couch and her blade cuts through the vase, the top half of it going flying over his shoulder. He jumps up onto the couch, diving over her spinning blades with a desperate shout.

He clears the blades and rolls to his feet, spinning around and raising the vase again. Jaskier blinks in surprise at what little is left and tosses it aside, his chest heaving and his face feeling hot and flushed. _“Jaskier…”_ Merlin sounds nervously impatient, _“The world is going to shit!”_

“I’m doing my best, Merlin!”

“Is he dead yet?” Gaunter shouts and Fringilla looks up at the booth in annoyance.

“Not yet!”

“Stop playing with your food! Kill him!”

Her jaw sets and she sprints forward, jumping at him feet first. Jaskier ducks, dropping to the floor. She lands on the edge of the bar behind him and jumps backwards into a flip. He tucks his arms in and rolls, just barely avoiding the blades as they land on the floor where his neck and chest had been. She jumps into another arcing flip and Jaskier rolls back the way he came, scrambling to his feet. 

He runs out from beneath her, his shoes sliding on the polished floor. He falls to the ground again as he grabs a large silver dish, knocking green and red apples out of it. Jaskier jumps to his feet and spins around, swinging the heavy dish at her head with a loud grunt. She avoids it and he swings back the opposite way at her legs, dropping to one knee. Fringilla places her hands on the ground over her head, kicking her blades up so he has to lean away and then bringing them down again.

One slices right through the bowl and his arms fly apart. She darts forward and grabs his left arm, jabbing her knee up into his gut. He grunts and pulls back, bringing his foot up and planting it in her chest. Jaskier kicks her away, hard; pushing off of her and falling back into a low table. The glass shatters beneath him.

Fringilla gasps as she slides to the opposite side of the cavern, placing a hand against where he kicked. Her face twists with rage. Jaskier gets to his feet as she rolls upright again, screaming in fury and dashing towards him. He runs forward as well, jumping into the air as she does the same. 

Time seems to slow down as he pulls his fist back, using the motion to twist in the air and avoid her blades that she leads with. As he sails past her, he brings his heels together sharply. The knife slides out of the tip of his right oxford and he kicks that foot up. He prays to any god that is listening and will hear him for this to work.

They hit the floor, Jaskier landing hard on his back and rolling across the ground. Fringilla slides on one knee, with her hand on the floor for stability, before rising to her blades once more. Jaskier stumbles to his feet, his body throbbing and muscles screaming, and he notices that his tie has been sliced in half. With a slightly awed expression, he removes the bottom half from his jacket and drops it to the ground.

Fringilla tracks the tie, looking smug, until her gaze lands on the blade sticking out of his shoe. She looks down at the cut on her arm, which is rapidly turning necrotic and black. The veins on her arm darken and her skin turns a sickly shade of green. She looks back up at Jaskier, who smirks at her triumphantly as the poison creeps up her neck, closing her airways, and makes it to her brain. She collapses to the ground without a sound and Jaskier lets out a breath, wiping the blood from his split lip on his sleeve.

“Fringilla!” Gaunter shouts, sounding ecstatic, “Fringilla?”

_“Come on! Kill him!”_

Jaskier glances at the screens, the map of the world that’s visible nearly completely red. He looks around, trying to find something to use that isn’t broken, and his eyes land on the blades of Fringilla’s prosthetics. He runs over, grimacing slightly as he grabs one and yanks it off. _“_ Fuck,” he grunts, the prosthetic detaching with a metallic _pop_. 

Jaskier gives it a sharp shake, the blade extending, and then backs up to get a better angle. With one arm extended, Jaskier runs forward a few steps and hurls the blade up at Gaunter as hard as he can, shouting from the effort. 

It goes straight through Gaunter O’Dimm’s back, protruding from his chest. He straightens up with a cry of pain, his hand pulling away from the biometric scanner. _“Hey-hey!”_ Merlin cheers in Jaskier’s ear, and he watches as Gaunter looks down at himself and the blood staining his shirt. Gaunter gags, clapping a hand over his mouth to try and stop himself, but the force of his vomit spews through his fingers and across his desk

He stumbles back, tottering at the edge of the booth for just a moment with a hand extended towards the desk, before toppling. Gaunter’s body hits the ground below with a dull thud.

 _“Well done, son!”_ Merlin shouts excitedly and Geralt’s voice patches in as well as Merlin merges the radios.

_“Yes! Yes, Jaskier!”_

_“Well done, Jaskier. And you, Lancelot.”_

Jaskier’s lips twitch as he looks at O’Dimm’s motionless body, panting for breath. He’s aware of bleeding in several places on his own body, but right now he can’t quite take his eyes away from Gaunter. It’s one thing to suggest to someone that you blow up hundreds of people’s heads, or to shoot nameless guards dressed in identical form, it’s another to kill two people within one minute of each other yourself.

 _“Vesemir would be proud of you, Jaskier,”_ Merlin says, a tone of pride in her own voice, _“he was right.”_

His shoulders relax slightly and he starts forward, walking to O’Dimm’s side and looking down at the billionaire. Gaunter’s chest is fluttering slightly, blood dripping from his mouth down to the floor, but he still gives Jaskier a weak, macabre smile.

“What’s up, man?” Gaunter says shakily, his eyes on Jaskier, “Is this the part where you say some… really bad pun?”

Jaskier smirks slightly, standing tall and proud as the last of his guilt melts away for the moment, “It’s like you said to Vesemir.” He fixes his cuffs and then bends over, placing his hands on his knees, “This ain’t that kind of movie, bruv.”

Gaunter’s face shudders, like he wants to grin but the muscles just aren’t responding, and his breath rattles in his throat. “P-perfect.”

His head lolls to the side as his gaze empties, and Jaskier straightens up again with a twist to his lips. This will probably become a part of his nightmares now, he’s sure of it. But at this exact moment, he just wants to go home, see Ciri, maybe take a bath. Simple pleasures.

As Jaskier is walking towards the tunnel, he spots an unopened bottle of champagne and decides to grab it. He then jogs through the tunnels back towards the door, a giddy smile on his face.

_“Jaskier, where are you going? There’s no need for champagne, we’ve got loads on the plane.”_

“Not for me, Merlin,” he replies, slowing in front of Elton John’s door and opening the window. The musician gets up from a couch he had been sitting on, hurrying over to the door.

“Did you save the world?”

Jaskier grins with a nod, “Yes, I did.”

“Good lad! Now get me the fuck out of here!”

He nods and tries the handle, forgetting the keypad for a moment and the door rattles against the lock. Jaskier pauses and looks up, “Merlin, the cell’s locked what’s the code?”

_“Um, twenty-six twenty-five.”_

Jaskier jabs the code in with his thumb and the door unlocks with a metallic _ker-chunk_ , “Merlin, you’re the guv’nor.” He opens the door and Elton John beams at him.

“What’s that for?” He nods his head at the champagne in Jaskier’s hand, “For me?”

“Any chance we can get some entertainment on the flight home?”

“For you, my boy?” Elton John takes the champagne and throws an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, “Anything.”


	14. XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains smut. The next is an identical chapter but is a SFW version.

**[Amell Mountains]**

Geralt watches with barely contained glee as the jet descends fifty feet away, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his hands clasped behind him professionally. Snow has started to fall gently from the gray sky but, to his delight, the air is almost still so it’s really not that cold at all. The turbines roar and the plane’s landing gear groans as it touches down before quieting to a whine and the door opens. He makes a beeline towards it, wanting to get out of these bloody mountains as soon as possible.

“Welcome back, Lancelot,” Merlin says from the doorway, stepping back to let him in.

Geralt smiles at her, “Good to be back, Merlin.”

Merlin opens her mouth to speak again when a loud, slightly slurred, duet interrupts her: “Saturday! Saturday! Saturday! That’s alright!” 

She sighs, but her violet eyes are pleased as she rolls them, “They’ve been at it for hours. Sir Elton is completely sloshed but I think Jaskier is just a little tipsy.”

Geralt nods and peers into the cabin, seeing Jaskier and Sir Elton John slouched on the couch with a bottle of champagne in hand each. While it’s a bit dazzling to see _the_ Elton John, Geralt only has eyes for Jaskier. He looks exhausted, with deep shadows under his eyes and a blossoming bruise on his cheek. His lip is split and his gelled hair is falling a bit in the front and his cheeks are slightly flushed with alcohol. He looks like shit. He looks alive. Geralt’s never seen a more beautiful sight.

Jaskier’s tired blue eyes land on him and light up, “Geralt!” He tries to sit up more and winces, moving stiffly, “Glad to have you back aboard! Sir Elton was just ah… what were you doing again, mate?”

“Before our _lovely_ rendition of Saturday Night, I was writing your grandmother a _song_.”

“You said a whole album,” Jaskier pouts.

Geralt tilts his head in confusion, an amused smile on his face as he walks over slowly, “Isn’t your grandmother dead?” The turbines speed up as the plane lifts off again, heading back towards Kingsman HQ.

Elton John gasps, affronted, “You _tricked_ me! Who was that fucking kiss for then?”

“Was for my gramma,” Jaskier nods somberly, “she died before she could get a kiss from Elton John. And now Geralt’s gone and ruined the album I was tricking out of you.”

“I’ll write you an album anyway, Jaskier. You saved the world!”

Geralt comes to a stop in front of Jaskier, looking down patiently until clear blue meets his own honey gold, “Yes, he did.”

With purpose, Geralt reaches out for Jaskier’s hand, waiting until Jaskier has taken it before hauling him to his feet and crushing their lips together in a passionate kiss. Jaskier gasps in surprise before making a soft sound of approval, winding his free arm around Geralt’s broad shoulders. Elton John wolf whistles at them and Merlin looks behind her to see what the commotion is.

“Come on, you two! Save it until we get back to HQ. Fuck’s sake.”

* * *

They crash through the door to Geralt’s room, their lips barely separating as they stumble inside. Jaskier kicks the door shut behind them and Geralt’s hands immediately go to the ruined tie still around Jaskier’s neck, undoing the knot and sliding it free of his collar. Jaskier ducks his head, taking his tongue and teeth and lips to Geralt’s throat as the other man undresses him since he has less to do to get the same result. Under Geralt’s halo suit, he’d just been clad in his jeans and a tight tee.

Geralt moans loudly as Jaskier leaves a mark to the side of his Adam's apple, his teeth nipping at the reddened skin and his nose burning against the short stubble on Geralt’s jaw. His cool hands slip beneath the thin fabric of Geralt’s tee shirt, pressing against warm skin and making Geralt shudder before pulling the shirt over Geralt’s head. Geralt pushes Jaskier’s unbuttoned shirt and the jacket of his bespoke Kingsman suit off of his shoulders and it falls to the ground with an unusually heavy thump.

It startles them, both men straightening up in surprise and looking down at the jacket that’s crumpled on the floor. There’s a few moments of stunned silence before Jaskier chuckles slightly and it builds into loud, almost hysterical, laughter. Geralt’s eyes widen and he starts to take a step back when Jaskier’s hand shoots out and wraps around his wrist.

“No, please, I…” the laughter is gone and Jaskier just sounds tired and sad, “Sorry. I’ve just had… a really _shit_ few days.” He looks up at Geralt, his wide eyes shining with unshed tears, “Don’t go?”

Geralt shakes his head, stepping closer and pulling Jaskier into a firm hug. Not so tight that it aggravates any of his injuries, but snug enough to make him feel safe and warm. “I won’t. Are you okay?”

Jaskier is quiet for a long time, his arms around Geralt’s waist. For a while, all that can be heard in the room is their quiet breathing and the low hum of the air unit. He revels in the feeling of Jaskier’s heartbeat against his chest and the hair that tickles his cheek, even if it is stiff with gel. Finally, Jaskier speaks:

“I don’t… you know I don’t like to…” talk about how I feel goes unsaid. Geralt hums in confirmation, he does know this. Jaskier may complain a lot, and seem like he voices his opinions on just about everything, but in reality he doesn’t say much about how he’s actually feeling at all. The only emotions you can really clock on him are happiness and anger.

He inhales shakily, the breath sounding choked and on the verge of tears, “I’m not. Not okay, I mean. I _saw_ Vesemir die not even a full day ago. I saw him just yesterday. And now he’s-” Jaskier’s voice breaks and Geralt feels dampness spreading across his shoulder where Jaskier has his face pressed to Geralt’s skin.

Geralt frowns and starts to rub Jaskier’s back, trying to soothe the man. He’s not sure what he can say, really he doesn’t think he can say anything, that would make Jaskier feel any better right now. He knows how close Jaskier and Vesemir had gotten, the Kingsman was like a father to him, and to have that ripped away so suddenly... Not only that, but to _see_ it?

“I’m so sorry,” Geralt murmurs. Jaskier breaks then, a rasping sob bursting free from his chest as his shoulders shake and his body shudders.

“The last thing he thought of me was that I was a failure!” Jaskier cries, “That I threw away the opportunity he gave me! And he was right!”

Geralt’s frown deepens, “You’re not a failure, Jask. You just saved the world!”

“Because no one else _could_ , Geralt, don’t you get it?” He pulls back to look at Geralt, distress and grief written into the lines of his face. He wasn’t lying when he said he was an ugly crier, his cheeks have turned splotchy and red and his eyes are puffy as he sniffles miserably, “If Kingsman hadn’t been compromised, I wouldn’t have been an _option_ for world-saving. Because I fucked up and wouldn’t shoot a _fucking_ dog and threw away the biggest opportunity of my life! I failed him, and now he’s gone and I can’t even make it up to him!”

Geralt’s not sure what to do, so he just leads them over to the bed, sitting Jaskier down and kneeling to take off his oxfords. Jaskier continues to sniffle and sob, trying desperately to stifle it behind his hands as Geralt undresses him. It’s not heated this time, as he unbuckles Jaskier’s belt and unzips his fly, urging him to stand up to remove his trousers. No, now it’s just to get Jaskier comfortable. He can’t imagine how much his-- well, Geralt’s not sure what word to use for Jaskier just yet so he’ll stick with “friend” for now. 

He can’t imagine how much his friend has been through in the past few days, and once he’s undressed both himself and Jaskier, Geralt climbs into bed with him. He pulls the covers up over them both and turns the lights off, wrapping his arms back around Jaskier once more. It takes Jaskier another thirty minutes before he’s able to stop crying, for now at least, and he lays silently beside Geralt. He’s completely drained.

“Need a shower,” he mumbles after a while.

“In the morning.”

“‘M sweaty. And gross.”

Geralt sighs and presses his forehead to the crown of Jaskier’s skull, “Shut up, Jask. You saved the world, you can ruin a set of sheets.”

“It’s not the sheets I care about.”

“I’m _also_ sweaty and gross,” he points out, “it doesn’t matter. You’re exhausted, and hurt. Both physically and emotionally. I mean, Melitele’s tits, Jask, you’re more bruise than man right now. What’d you do, get beat up by a juggernaut?”

Jaskier snorts softly, “sure felt like it. She was _insane_.”

“Wanna tell me about it?”

Jaskier is quiet for another long while before he softly starts to talk, telling Geralt about the bunker and the guards and the prison cells full of celebrities and politicians who refused to get the implants. He tells Geralt about the cavern, and Valdo, and the televisions showing footage of the worldwide carnage. He talks about Fringilla, and her knife legs, and how he was terrified the entire time he fought her, scared that he was going to die because she continually had the upper hand. He tells Geralt about Gaunter, how the man was cuckoo-bananas and drunk off the power he wielded. He says how he killed them both, and Geralt’s arms tighten around Jaskier at that admission. Geralt knows he’ll end up killing someone someday. Probably soon, it’s the work of a spy after all. But that doesn’t mean he’s looking forward to it.

Jaskier falls asleep when he’s telling Geralt about Elton John, and asking for a kiss for his dead grandmother, his troubled face eased slightly and relaxing completely as sleep takes him. Geralt falls asleep with a soft smile, holding the man he loves.

* * *

He’s woken in the morning by soft kisses to his neck and jaw, and he groans slightly as the sunlight streaming across the bed hits him in the face. Geralt chuckles, soft, before pressing his lips to Jaskier’s in a slow, luxurious kiss. It’s the nicest way Jaskier has woken up in a very long time, and he smiles as he peels his eyes open, blinking away the sleep.

“What was that for?” He murmurs, his voice rough and heavy like it always is first thing in the morning. Geralt’s eyes darken as he glances at Jaskier’s lips again, leaning down to kiss him some more.

“Felt like it.”

“I’m not complaining,” Jaskier sighs with a smile, reaching one hand up to tangle his fingers in Geralt’s hair. His grief still lingers at the back of his mind, one good cry isn’t nearly enough to fix it, but he can ignore it for now in favor of the good fortune bestowed upon him this morning. Geralt’s fingers slide down Jaskier’s exposed side and he shivers slightly before wincing. He’s even more sore today than he was last night, his joints feeling like someone’s filled them with expanding foam and his body like he was run over by a train.

“Let me,” Geralt says softly, “Let me take care of you, Jask. You deserve it.”

“Dunno what I did, though.”

He rolls his eyes with exasperation, pulling back just enough to meet Jaskier’s curious gaze, “I don’t know why I keep having to say it.”

“Maybe I like hearing it,” Jaskier teases, but there’s something incredibly vulnerable in his eyes. Geralt wonders if he’s not used to being appreciated, to being praised.

“Jaskier, you _saved_ the _world_. And you’ll have no one to thank you for it but me, so I’ll be thanking you on behalf of everybody.”

Jaskier turns a very attractive shade of red as he looks away bashfully, “You don’t have to do that.”

“I _want_ to,” he presses another gentle kiss to Jaskier’s cheek, “Now, I know we talked about boundaries and stuff on the plane, but I want to double check that you’re still okay with…?”

“Being the runway for your airplane?"

“Never say that again, please,” Geralt groans, dropping his forehead to Jaskier’s chest as it shakes with quiet laughter, “But yes.”

Jaskier runs his fingers through Geralt’s long hair, carefully untangling it, “Yes, I’m still okay with stemming your rose."

“Jaskier, _please_."

“I’ll be your sausage jockey.”

“I’m _begging_ you _.”_

“I’ll be the bum you play darts with.”

 _“Enough_.”

“Alright! Alright,” Jaskier laughs, “Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”

“For fuck’s sake, yes, we are,” Geralt groans, but he’s smiling as he allows Jaskier to pull him up for another long, slow kiss. It eventually becomes more heated and Geralt’s hands wander south again, touching and teasing and pulling soft mewls and moans from the man beneath him. He finds that Jaskier’s chest is very sensitive, despite the dense hair that darkens his skin, and his nipples even more so. Geralt’s not afraid to admit he spends quite a bit of time lavishing them until Jaskier was nearly writhing from his ministrations.

Jaskier’s thigh is nestled between his legs, and Geralt is slowly grinding against it as he kisses Jaskier deeply, the fabric of their underthings rubbing against them as Geralt’s own thigh presses against Jaskier’s hard length. Once Jaskier is panting softly against his lips, Geralt’s own breathing less than steady as well, he gets up to retrieve a bottle of lube and his strap.

“You’ve just got those, have you?” Jaskier asks breathlessly, “What, through all of training, too?”

Geralt shoots him a look as he steps out of his boxers and puts on the comfortable tan harness, “I went home to retrieve my things after I was hired, Jask. Don’t be stupid.”

“Right, yeah, makes sense.”

Geralt comes back over, now outfitted with a modest cock the same creamy color of his skin. He had it custom made, some years ago now when he turned 18, to look how he’d like his cock to look and so that it would also nestle in himself, making him feel each and every thrust. He crawls back onto the bed and gets under the covers, trying to keep out the late autumn chill. 

He starts kissing Jaskier once more, opening a condom and rolling it onto his cock before popping his bottle of lube and drizzling some onto his fingers. Jaskier moans softly and spreads his legs and Geralt trails his slicked fingers along Jaskier’s length, just barely touching it as he slides his hand down to Jaskier’s hole. He massages gently, greedily swallowing the moans and gasps that spill from Jaskier’s lips, until he feels the muscle has relaxed enough for him to work one finger in.

Jaskier groans, tensing briefly before forcing himself to relax again. They’d spoken on the plane, in hushed voices and as far from Sir Elton and Merlin as possible, about what they like and their previous experiences. Geralt had told him that he prefers being on top, he doesn’t like giving up control nor does he enjoy the “power bottom” experience. Jaskier had admitted that, while he’d been with men before, he’s always been giving and never receiving. But he wasn’t averse to it, just warning Geralt in case Geralt worried he was doing something wrong.

After a moment, Jaskier sighs, his fingers digging into Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt takes this as a sign to continue, and slowly pumps his finger in and out until he feels like Jaskier is loose enough for a second. He adds another finger and Jaskier gasps at the stretch, his back arching slightly off of the bed and one of his hands going to his own hair to tug at the gel greased locks. He’s flushed all the way down to his chest, and panting, and his heavy cock is leaking so beautifully against his hip as Geralt scissors his fingers within Jaskier.

“Fuck!” Jaskier cries out in surprise and delight as Geralt crooks his fingers, finding Jaskier’s prostate. He gasps and moans noisily as Geralt pushes against it again, a pleased look on Geralt’s face. “Fuck, Geralt, come on, I don’t want to wait anymore.”

“Just a bit longer,” Geralt murmurs, pressing kisses to Jaskier’s jaw. Geralt feels wet enough to be dripping, the sounds he’s pulling from Jaskier’s throat going straight to his groin. He adds a third finger, delicately working Jaskier open until he’s positive that Jaskier won’t be hurt from his first time.

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier gasps, “get a _move on_.”

“Okay, okay. So impatient,” he teases as he removes his fingers. Jaskier lets out a tiny whine at the loss and Geralt almost melts into a puddle, it’s the most adorably sexy sound he’s ever heard. Jaskier opens his legs further and Geralt lines up, pushing his cock in slowly. 

Jaskier moans, his head falling back and exposing his throat, which Geralt takes full advantage of. He presses open kisses and nips at the pink skin, turning it red first and then purple. He marks Jaskier’s neck, from his jaw to his collarbone, so everyone will see that he’s taken. That this stupid, funny, brilliant man belongs to Geralt, and be envious that Geralt is the luckiest man in the world. He’s fully seated in Jaskier now, and waits patiently for a sign to-

“ _Move.”_

Geralt, never one to disobey an order, does as he’s told. He pulls his hips back before snapping them forward again and Jaskier shouts, his arms circling Geralt’s torso and his legs wrapping around Geralt’s waist. He digs his heels into the back of Geralt’s thighs, encouraging him to move faster, fuck him harder, he’s not a porcelain doll Geralt so _get a move on_.

Geralt growls and grabs Jaskier’s hip in one hand, lifting them to get a deeper angle. His cock is hitting Jaskier’s prostate with each firm thrust and Jaskier is nearly sobbing as his body burns for release. Geralt groans as well, the strap stimulating his engorged cock and his thighs are damp from his own slick. 

“Fuck, Geralt, I’m close,” Jaskier moans, his fingernails raking down Geralt’s back. Geralt gasps and nods in agreement, giving Jaskier a faint hum before Geralt’s hips stutter as he clamps down on the cock, shouting in ecstasy as he comes. Jaskier watches him with dark, hooded eyes, his long fingers reaching for his own neglected cock but Geralt knocks his hand away. 

He takes Jaskier’s cock in hand and gives it a few firm strokes before Jaskier’s throwing his head back and crying out, white ropes decorating his stomach and chest. Geralt fucks him through it, slowing when they’re both on the verge of overstimulation. Only then does he carefully pull out and collapse beside Jaskier, both of them panting and gasping for breath.

Jaskier reaches over, taking Geralt’s hand in his own and squeezing it gently. They don’t say anything. Nothing needs to be said.

After a few minutes, Jaskier tries to get up to get cleaned up, remembering that he got hit by the human equivalent of a steamroller the day before, and groaning. Geralt opens his eyes and blinks, slowly figuring out what Jaskier is trying to do and getting up to help him. He does take a moment to remove the strap first, going to the bathroom and wiping it down with a warm, wet rag after he removes the used condom. He’ll clean it properly later, but for now he goes back to the bed and bends down, pressing a soft kiss to Jaskier’s lips as he wipes down Jaskier’s chest with another warm rag.

“Figured you’d prefer a bath without come in it,” Geralt teases and Jaskier chuckles softly as he pushes himself back up again, his face twisting into a pained grimace.

“Heard it’s good for the skin, actually.”

“Gross.”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Jaskier points out and Geralt concedes. He leaves Jaskier on the bed for another minute as he goes into the en suite, starting the tap and making sure the water is hot before he stops the drain of the large tub. That was his one request, when Merlin asked what he’d like for his room, access to a large bathtub. 

Once the tub is full, he retrieves Jaskier. Geralt offers to carry him into the bathroom, but Jaskier declines, forcing himself to his feet and taking steps that are stiff from more than just their copulation. Geralt takes a silent breath as he really observes the bruising and cuts on Jaskier’s body in the light of day. 

Purple and blue galaxies mark up his forearms and the backs of his calves, cuts lining his right arm from their second to last test and a, now stitched, graze from a bullet on his ankle where his suit had ridden up. Geralt had asked Jaskier if any of it hurt while he was fighting, and Jaskier had shaken his head. _“I didn’t feel any of it until I’d made it back to the plane, to be honest. Didn’t even know I’d been shot. Merlin had to point it out to me.”_

It’s frightening how easily they can be injured in this line of work. Geralt knew that, of course. He knew that this was a dangerous job and any mission, even their first, could be their last. But there’s a difference between knowing and seeing. And seeing the evidence on Jaskier’s skin makes his heart twist as he follows Jaskier into the bathroom. Jaskier slowly, laboriously, climbs into the tub, settling into the hot water with a groan of relief as it eases some of his aches and pains.

Geralt gets in behind him, his legs bracketing Jaskier’s hips, and he pulls Jaskier back against his chest. He closes his eyes and rests his fingers on Jaskier’s stomach, feeling the firm muscle beneath a soft layer of fat, and he’s content. Jaskier sighs softly, letting his head rest against Geralt’s shoulder and closing his own tired eyes.

“You never did tell me how you feel about me,” Jaskier murmurs, a smile tugging at his lips. Geralt chuckles and gently tightens his grip.

“I feel like it’s obvious at this point.”

* * *

**[Kerack - The Rosemary & Thistle Pub]**

The pub is quiet on a Tuesday afternoon except for the music playing on a tablet that’s propped up on one of the booth tables and the drone of the football match on the televisions behind the bar. Deidre has her head tilted and her eyes closed as she hums along to the crooning love song, her fingers wrapped around a half empty pint glass of water. 

“Deidre, turn that shit off. It’s doing my nuts in.”

She opens her eyes to look at her husband sitting across from her. He’s slouched low in his seat and, despite frequenting this pub, looks like he’d rather be anywhere else right now than sitting with her. He’s got his own glass in hand, two-thirds empty of his second round of stout that he’s rapidly putting away so he can get a third. She sighs and moves to pause the music when another voice stops her.

“I rather like that song. Leave it on, eh, Mum?”

Deidre looks over quickly, her eyes widening at the sight of her son. He’s dressed in a gorgeous, dark gray suit with little pinstripes on it and a matching tie, a pair of thick glasses perched on his nose. His hair is gelled back and in his hands is the curved handle of an umbrella, the tip of it resting between the toes of his shiny oxfords. Her hand drops away from the tablet and Roben shifts forward, turning it off himself.

“Jaskie’s back,” he says, a displeased frown on his face, “You finally come to have that word with me, have you, son?” He shifts in his seat, angling himself to get up, “Or are you gonna run away again and pretend you’re going to court dressed like that?”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows, gesturing to his outfit, “Oh you mean this? No. I know this bloke who’s just taken over a tailor’s shop on Sadie Row.” He walks closer, his eyes on his mother, “He’s given me a job, Mum.” 

A job? Her Jaskier? Oh, she’s so pleased with him, and she smiles happily. He finally seems to be turning his life around, doing what she and Renfri always wanted for him instead of this existence of petty crime he was falling into a little over a year ago.

“Comes with a _lot_ of perks,” Jaskier glances at Roben smugly, “Including a _house_. Come and live with me there, Mum.” Deidre’s smile grows and she starts to get up, the weight she’s carried on her shoulders for years now feels like it’s lifting. “Come on.”

“Sit down, you,” Roben sneers, and immediately the weight is back. “Only place she’ll be visiting is you in fucking hospital. Do you hear?” Roben gets up and the few friends he has in the pub with him stand as well. 

Deidre’s had enough. She’s tired of Roben treating her like shit and treating Jaskier like he’s worth less than the dirt they walk on. She hated seeing her son being taught that he was worthless, that he was garbage, and she resents herself now for never doing anything. She had felt trapped, like if she did anything Roben didn’t want then Jaskier would actually get hurt. But that was then, and she can do something now.

“Just leave him alone, Roben!” Deidre gets up and steps into Roben’s path, speaking over her shoulder, “Jaskier, go. Please, just go, love.”

Jaskier watches them for a minute before smiling indulgently and nodding, “Alright.” He turns around and walks towards the door and Roben shoves Deidre out of the way as he advances forward.

“Yes, do as Mummy says. Why don’t you ask that tailor friend of yours to knock up a nice chicken costume,” Roben taunts with a smirk, “it’d suit you, you mug.”

Jaskier stops walking when he reaches the door, his back to the room. “As a good friend once said,” he reaches up and grabs the door bolt, pushing it up into the locked position, “Manners…” He locks the other door as well. “Maketh.” He slides the deadbolt shut. “Man.”

Bar Face leans closer to Roben with a worried frown, “Hey…”

“Shut the fuck up,” Roben snarls, “Jaskier, I’m gonna shove your manners up your fucking-”

Jaskier hooks the end of his umbrella around a glass on a nearby table, flicking it backwards to hit Roben square in the face. It shatters and Roben drops to the ground.

Deidre watches in surprised amazement, her blue eyes wide as she lifts her gaze from Roben’s prone body to Jaskier at the door.

“So…” Jaskier turns around, resting his hands casually atop the curve of his umbrella as he grins at the rest of the gang, “Are we gonna stand around here all day? Or are we going to fight?”


	15. XIII - SFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is identical to the previous one, just without the explicit smut.

**[Amell Mountains]**

Geralt watches with barely contained glee as the jet descends fifty feet away, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his hands clasped behind him professionally. Snow has started to fall gently from the gray sky but, to his delight, the air is almost still so it’s really not that cold at all. The turbines roar and the plane’s landing gear groans as it touches down before quieting to a whine and the door opens. He makes a beeline towards it, wanting to get out of these bloody mountains as soon as possible.

“Welcome back, Lancelot,” Merlin says from the doorway, stepping back to let him in.

Geralt smiles at her, “Good to be back, Merlin.”

Merlin opens her mouth to speak again when a loud, slightly slurred, duet interrupts her: “Saturday! Saturday! Saturday! That’s alright!” 

She sighs, but her violet eyes are pleased as she rolls them, “They’ve been at it for hours. Sir Elton is completely sloshed but I think Jaskier is just a little tipsy.”

Geralt nods and peers into the cabin, seeing Jaskier and Sir Elton John slouched on the couch with a bottle of champagne in hand each. While it’s a bit dazzling to see _the_ Elton John, Geralt only has eyes for Jaskier. He looks exhausted, with deep shadows under his eyes and a blossoming bruise on his cheek. His lip is split and his gelled hair is falling a bit in the front and his cheeks are slightly flushed with alcohol. He looks like shit. He looks alive. Geralt’s never seen a more beautiful sight.

Jaskier’s tired blue eyes land on him and light up, “Geralt!” He tries to sit up more and winces, moving stiffly, “Glad to have you back aboard! Sir Elton was just ah… what were you doing again, mate?”

“Before our _lovely_ rendition of Saturday Night, I was writing your grandmother a _song_.”

“You said a whole album,” Jaskier pouts.

Geralt tilts his head in confusion, an amused smile on his face as he walks over slowly, “Isn’t your grandmother dead?” The turbines speed up as the plane lifts off again, heading back towards Kingsman HQ.

Elton John gasps, affronted, “You _tricked_ me! Who was that fucking kiss for then?”

“Was for my gramma,” Jaskier nods somberly, “she died before she could get a kiss from Elton John. And now Geralt’s gone and ruined the album I was tricking out of you.”

“I’ll write you an album anyway, Jaskier. You saved the world!”

Geralt comes to a stop in front of Jaskier, looking down patiently until clear blue meets his own honey gold, “Yes, he did.”

With purpose, Geralt reaches out for Jaskier’s hand, waiting until Jaskier has taken it before hauling him to his feet and crushing their lips together in a passionate kiss. Jaskier gasps in surprise before making a soft sound of approval, winding his free arm around Geralt’s broad shoulders. Elton John wolf whistles at them and Merlin looks behind her to see what the commotion is.

“Come on, you two! Save it until we get back to HQ. Fuck’s sake.”

* * *

They crash through the door to Geralt’s room, their lips barely separating as they stumble inside. Jaskier kicks the door shut behind them and Geralt’s hands immediately go to the ruined tie still around Jaskier’s neck, undoing the knot and sliding it free of his collar. Jaskier ducks his head, taking his tongue and teeth and lips to Geralt’s throat as the other man undresses him since he has less to do to get the same result. Under Geralt’s halo suit, he’d just been clad in his jeans and a tight tee.

Geralt moans loudly as Jaskier leaves a mark to the side of his Adam's apple, his teeth nipping at the reddened skin and his nose burning against the short stubble on Geralt’s jaw. His cool hands slip beneath the thin fabric of Geralt’s tee shirt, pressing against warm skin and making Geralt shudder before pulling the shirt over Geralt’s head. Geralt pushes Jaskier’s unbuttoned shirt and the jacket of his bespoke Kingsman suit off of his shoulders and it falls to the ground with an unusually heavy thump.

It startles them, both men straightening up in surprise and looking down at the jacket that’s crumpled on the floor. There’s a few moments of stunned silence before Jaskier chuckles slightly and it builds into loud, almost hysterical, laughter. Geralt’s eyes widen and he starts to take a step back when Jaskier’s hand shoots out and wraps around his wrist.

“No, please, I…” the laughter is gone and Jaskier just sounds tired and sad, “Sorry. I’ve just had… a really _shit_ few days.” He looks up at Geralt, his wide eyes shining with unshed tears, “Don’t go?”

Geralt shakes his head, stepping closer and pulling Jaskier into a firm hug. Not so tight that it aggravates any of his injuries, but snug enough to make him feel safe and warm. “I won’t. Are you okay?”

Jaskier is quiet for a long time, his arms around Geralt’s waist. For a while, all that can be heard in the room is their quiet breathing and the low hum of the air unit. He revels in the feeling of Jaskier’s heartbeat against his chest and the hair that tickles his cheek, even if it is stiff with gel. Finally, Jaskier speaks:

“I don’t… you know I don’t like to…” talk about how I feel goes unsaid. Geralt hums in confirmation, he does know this. Jaskier may complain a lot, and seem like he voices his opinions on just about everything, but in reality he doesn’t say much about how he’s actually feeling at all. The only emotions you can really clock on him are happiness and anger.

He inhales shakily, the breath sounding choked and on the verge of tears, “I’m not. Not okay, I mean. I _saw_ Vesemir die not even a full day ago. I saw him just yesterday. And now he’s-” Jaskier’s voice breaks and Geralt feels dampness spreading across his shoulder where Jaskier has his face pressed to Geralt’s skin.

Geralt frowns and starts to rub Jaskier’s back, trying to soothe the man. He’s not sure what he can say, really he doesn’t think he can say anything, that would make Jaskier feel any better right now. He knows how close Jaskier and Vesemir had gotten, the Kingsman was like a father to him, and to have that ripped away so suddenly... Not only that, but to _see_ it?

“I’m so sorry,” Geralt murmurs. Jaskier breaks then, a rasping sob bursting free from his chest as his shoulders shake and his body shudders.

“The last thing he thought of me was that I was a failure!” Jaskier cries, “That I threw away the opportunity he gave me! And he was right!”

Geralt’s frown deepens, “You’re not a failure, Jask. You just saved the world!”

“Because no one else _could_ , Geralt, don’t you get it?” He pulls back to look at Geralt, distress and grief written into the lines of his face. He wasn’t lying when he said he was an ugly crier, his cheeks have turned splotchy and red and his eyes are puffy as he sniffles miserably, “If Kingsman hadn’t been compromised, I wouldn’t have been an _option_ for world-saving. Because I fucked up and wouldn’t shoot a _fucking_ dog and threw away the biggest opportunity of my life! I failed him, and now he’s gone and I can’t even make it up to him!”

Geralt’s not sure what to do, so he just leads them over to the bed, sitting Jaskier down and kneeling to take off his oxfords. Jaskier continues to sniffle and sob, trying desperately to stifle it behind his hands as Geralt undresses him. It’s not heated this time, as he unbuckles Jaskier’s belt and unzips his fly, urging him to stand up to remove his trousers. No, now it’s just to get Jaskier comfortable. He can’t imagine how much his-- well, Geralt’s not sure what word to use for Jaskier just yet so he’ll stick with “friend” for now. 

He can’t imagine how much his friend has been through in the past few days, and once he’s undressed both himself and Jaskier, Geralt climbs into bed with him. He pulls the covers up over them both and turns the lights off, wrapping his arms back around Jaskier once more. It takes Jaskier another thirty minutes before he’s able to stop crying, for now at least, and he lays silently beside Geralt. He’s completely drained.

“Need a shower,” he mumbles after a while.

“In the morning.”

“‘M sweaty. And gross.”

Geralt sighs and presses his forehead to the crown of Jaskier’s skull, “Shut up, Jask. You saved the world, you can ruin a set of sheets.”

“It’s not the sheets I care about.”

“I’m _also_ sweaty and gross,” he points out, “it doesn’t matter. You’re exhausted, and hurt. Both physically and emotionally. I mean, Melitele’s tits, Jask, you’re more bruise than man right now. What’d you do, get beat up by a juggernaut?”

Jaskier snorts softly, “sure felt like it. She was _insane_.”

“Wanna tell me about it?”

Jaskier is quiet for another long while before he softly starts to talk, telling Geralt about the bunker and the guards and the prison cells full of celebrities and politicians who refused to get the implants. He tells Geralt about the cavern, and Valdo, and the televisions showing footage of the worldwide carnage. He talks about Fringilla, and her knife legs, and how he was terrified the entire time he fought her, scared that he was going to die because she continually had the upper hand. He tells Geralt about Gaunter, how the man was cuckoo-bananas and drunk off the power he wielded. He says how he killed them both, and Geralt’s arms tighten around Jaskier at that admission. Geralt knows he’ll end up killing someone someday. Probably soon, it’s the work of a spy after all. But that doesn’t mean he’s looking forward to it.

Jaskier falls asleep when he’s telling Geralt about Elton John, and asking for a kiss for his dead grandmother, his troubled face eased slightly and relaxing completely as sleep takes him. Geralt falls asleep with a soft smile, holding the man he loves.

* * *

He’s woken in the morning by soft kisses to his neck and jaw, and he groans slightly as the sunlight streaming across the bed hits him in the face. Geralt chuckles, soft, before pressing his lips to Jaskier’s in a slow, luxurious kiss. It’s the nicest way Jaskier has woken up in a very long time, and he smiles as he peels his eyes open, blinking away the sleep.

“What was that for?” He murmurs, his voice rough and heavy like it always is first thing in the morning. Geralt’s eyes darken as he glances at Jaskier’s lips again, leaning down to kiss him some more.

“Felt like it.”

“I’m not complaining,” Jaskier sighs with a smile, reaching one hand up to tangle his fingers in Geralt’s hair. His grief still lingers at the back of his mind, one good cry isn’t nearly enough to fix it, but he can ignore it for now in favor of the good fortune bestowed upon him this morning. Geralt’s fingers slide down Jaskier’s exposed side and he shivers slightly before wincing. He’s even more sore today than he was last night, his joints feeling like someone’s filled them with expanding foam and his body like he was run over by a train.

“Let me,” Geralt says softly, “Let me take care of you, Jask. You deserve it."

“Dunno what I did, though.”

He rolls his eyes with exasperation, pulling back just enough to meet Jaskier’s curious gaze, “I don’t know why I keep having to say it.”

“Maybe I like hearing it,” Jaskier teases, but there’s something incredibly vulnerable in his eyes. Geralt wonders if he’s not used to being appreciated, to being praised.

“Jaskier, you _saved_ the _world_. And you’ll have no one to thank you for it but me, so I’ll be thanking you on behalf of everybody.”

Jaskier turns a very attractive shade of red as he looks away bashfully, “You don’t have to do that.”

“I _want_ to,” he presses another gentle kiss to Jaskier’s cheek, “Now, I know we talked about boundaries and stuff on the plane, but I want to double check that you’re still okay with…?”

“Being the runway for your airplane?”

“Never say that again, please,” Geralt groans, dropping his forehead to Jaskier’s chest as it shakes with quiet laughter, “But yes.”

Jaskier runs his fingers through Geralt’s long hair, carefully untangling it, “Yes, I’m still okay with stemming your rose.”

“Jaskier, _please_.”

“I’ll be your sausage jockey.”

“I’m _begging_ you _.”_

“I’ll be the bum you play darts with.”

 _“Enough_.”

“Alright! Alright,” Jaskier laughs, “Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”

“For fuck’s sake, yes, we are,” Geralt groans, but he’s smiling as he allows Jaskier to pull him up for another long, slow kiss. 

Later, with sweat cooling on their skin and racing hearts calming, Jaskier reaches over, taking Geralt’s hand in his own and squeezing it gently. They don’t say anything. Nothing needs to be said.

After a few minutes, Jaskier tries to get up to get cleaned up, remembering that he got hit by the human equivalent of a steamroller the day before, and groaning. Geralt opens his eyes and blinks, slowly figuring out what Jaskier is trying to do and getting up to help him. He leaves Jaskier on the bed for a minute as he goes into the en suite, starting the tap and making sure the water is hot before he stops the drain of the large tub. That was his one request, when Merlin asked what he’d like for his room, access to a large bathtub. 

Once the tub is full, he retrieves Jaskier. Geralt offers to carry him into the bathroom, but Jaskier declines, forcing himself to his feet and taking steps that are stiff from more than just their copulation. Geralt takes a silent breath as he really observes the bruising and cuts on Jaskier’s body in the light of day. 

Purple and blue galaxies mark up his forearms and the backs of his calves, cuts lining his right arm from their second to last test and a, now stitched, graze from a bullet on his ankle where his suit had ridden up. Geralt had asked Jaskier if any of it hurt while he was fighting, and Jaskier had shaken his head. _“I didn’t feel any of it until I’d made it back to the plane, to be honest. Didn’t even know I’d been shot. Merlin had to point it out to me.”_

It’s frightening how easily they can be injured in this line of work. Geralt knew that, of course. He knew that this was a dangerous job and any mission, even their first, could be their last. But there’s a difference between knowing and seeing. And seeing the evidence on Jaskier’s skin makes his heart twist as he follows Jaskier into the bathroom. Jaskier slowly, laboriously, climbs into the tub, settling into the hot water with a groan of relief as it eases some of his aches and pains.

Geralt gets in behind him, his legs bracketing Jaskier’s hips, and he pulls Jaskier back against his chest. He closes his eyes and rests his fingers on Jaskier’s stomach, feeling the firm muscle beneath a soft layer of fat, and he’s content. Jaskier sighs softly, letting his head rest against Geralt’s shoulder and closing his own tired eyes.

“You never did tell me how you feel about me,” Jaskier murmurs, a smile tugging at his lips. Geralt chuckles and gently tightens his grip.

“I feel like it’s obvious at this point.”

* * *

**[Kerack - The Rosemary & Thistle Pub]**

The pub is quiet on a Tuesday afternoon except for the music playing on a tablet that’s propped up on one of the booth tables and the drone of the football match on the televisions behind the bar. Deidre has her head tilted and her eyes closed as she hums along to the crooning love song, her fingers wrapped around a half empty pint glass of water. 

“Deidre, turn that shit off. It’s doing my nuts in.”

She opens her eyes to look at her husband sitting across from her. He’s slouched low in his seat and, despite frequenting this pub, looks like he’d rather be anywhere else right now than sitting with her. He’s got his own glass in hand, two-thirds empty of his second round of stout that he’s rapidly putting away so he can get a third. She sighs and moves to pause the music when another voice stops her.

“I rather like that song. Leave it on, eh, Mum?”

Deidre looks over quickly, her eyes widening at the sight of her son. He’s dressed in a gorgeous, dark gray suit with little pinstripes on it and a matching tie, a pair of thick glasses perched on his nose. His hair is gelled back and in his hands is the curved handle of an umbrella, the tip of it resting between the toes of his shiny oxfords. Her hand drops away from the tablet and Roben shifts forward, turning it off himself.

“Jaskie’s back,” he says, a displeased frown on his face, “You finally come to have that word with me, have you, son?” He shifts in his seat, angling himself to get up, “Or are you gonna run away again and pretend you’re going to court dressed like that?”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows, gesturing to his outfit, “Oh you mean this? No. I know this bloke who’s just taken over a tailor’s shop on Sadie Row.” He walks closer, his eyes on his mother, “He’s given me a job, Mum.” 

A job? Her Jaskier? Oh, she’s so pleased with him, and she smiles happily. He finally seems to be turning his life around, doing what she and Renfri always wanted for him instead of this existence of petty crime he was falling into a little over a year ago.

“Comes with a _lot_ of perks,” Jaskier glances at Roben smugly, “Including a _house_. Come and live with me there, Mum.” Deidre’s smile grows and she starts to get up, the weight she’s carried on her shoulders for years now feels like it’s lifting. “Come on.”

“Sit down, you,” Roben sneers, and immediately the weight is back. “Only place she’ll be visiting is you in fucking hospital. Do you hear?” Roben gets up and the few friends he has in the pub with him stand as well. 

Deidre’s had enough. She’s tired of Roben treating her like shit and treating Jaskier like he’s worth less than the dirt they walk on. She hated seeing her son being taught that he was worthless, that he was garbage, and she resents herself now for never doing anything. She had felt trapped, like if she did anything Roben didn’t want then Jaskier would actually get hurt. But that was then, and she can do something now.

“Just leave him alone, Roben!” Deidre gets up and steps into Roben’s path, speaking over her shoulder, “Jaskier, go. Please, just go, love.”

Jaskier watches them for a minute before smiling indulgently and nodding, “Alright.” He turns around and walks towards the door and Roben shoves Deidre out of the way as he advances forward.

“Yes, do as Mummy says. Why don’t you ask that tailor friend of yours to knock up a nice chicken costume,” Roben taunts with a smirk, “it’d suit you, you mug.”

Jaskier stops walking when he reaches the door, his back to the room. “As a good friend once said,” he reaches up and grabs the door bolt, pushing it up into the locked position, “Manners…” He locks the other door as well. “Maketh.” He slides the deadbolt shut. “Man.”

Bar Face leans closer to Roben with a worried frown, “Hey…”

“Shut the fuck up,” Roben snarls, “Jaskier, I’m gonna shove your manners up your fucking-”

Jaskier hooks the end of his umbrella around a glass on a nearby table, flicking it backwards to hit Roben square in the face. It shatters and Roben drops to the ground.

Deidre watches in surprised amazement, her blue eyes wide as she lifts her gaze from Roben’s prone body to Jaskier at the door.

“So…” Jaskier turns around, resting his hands casually atop the curve of his umbrella as he grins at the rest of the gang, “Are we gonna stand around here all day? Or are we going to fight?”

**Author's Note:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me. Please do not repost my artwork anywhere, you can reblog a copy of the movie poster [here.](https://buffskierights.tumblr.com/post/626218967210622976/kingsman-the-secret-service)


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